The Moghul Page 29

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The light of a single flame tip burned through the haze of hisvision, and then he heard words around him, in a terse language asancient as time. He tried to move, and an aching soreness shot throughhis shoulders and into his groin. His head seemed afire.

  I must be dead. Why is there still pain?

  He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly began to takeform. It was a cell, with heavy bamboo slats over the windows and anancient wooden latch on the door. The floor was earth and the wallsgray mud with occasional inscriptions in red. Next to him was asilhouette, the outline of a man squatting before an oil lamp andslowly repeating a sharp, toneless verse. He puzzled at the words as hestudied the figure.

  It's the language of the priest at the wedding. It must be Sanskrit.But who . . . ?

  He pulled himself upward on an elbow and turned toward the figure,which seemed to flicker in the undulating shadows. Then he recognizedthe profile of Vasant Rao. The verses stopped abruptly and the Rajputturned to examine him.

  "So you're not dead? That could be a mistake you'll regret." VasantRao's face sagged and his once-haughty moustache was an unkempt tangle.He stared at Hawksworth a moment more, then turned back to the lamp.The Sanskrit verses resumed.

  "Where the hell are we?"

  Vasant Rao paused, and then slowly revolved toward Hawksworth.

  "In the fortress village of Bhandu, ten _kos_ northwest of the

  town of Chopda. It's the mountain stronghold of the Chandella dynastyof Rajputs."

  "And who the hell are they?"

  "They claim direct descent from the ancient solar race of Rajputsdescribed in the Puranas. Who knows, but that's what they believe. Whatwe all do know is they've defended these hills for all of time."

  "Did they take the caravan?"

  A bolt of humiliation and pain swept through Vasant Rao's eyes for amoment and then his reserve returned. "Yes, it was taken."

  "So your mighty 'solar race' is really a breed of God- cursedcommon bandits."

  "Bandits, they are. They always have been. Common, no. They'reprofessionals, honorable men of high caste."

  "High-caste thieves. Like some of the merchants I've met."Hawksworth paused and tried to find his tongue. His mouth was likecotton. "How long've we been here?"

  "This is the morning of our second day. We arrived yesterday,after traveling all night."

  "I feel like I've been keelhauled for a week." Hawksworthgingerly touched his forehead and there was a pulse of pain.

  Vasant Rao listened with a puzzled expression. "You were tiedover your horse. Some of the clan wanted to kill you and leave youthere, but then they decided that would give you too much honor."

  "What the hell are you talking about? I remember I gave them afight."

  "You used a pistol. You killed a man, the head of this dynasty,with a pistol."

  The words seemed to cut through the shadows of the room. Thepain returned and ached through Hawksworth's body.

  More deaths. The two men who died on the _Discovery_. I saw Nayka diewith an arrow in his throat. And how many of the Rajput guards died?Why am I always in the middle of fighting and death?

  "The bastards killed my driver."

  "The driver was nothing. A low caste." He shrugged it away. "Youare an important _feringhi_. You would not have been harmed. You shouldnever have drawn a pistol. And then you allowed yourself to becaptured. It was an act beneath honor. The women spat on you and yourhorse when you were brought through the streets. I have no doubtthey'll kill us both now."

  "Who's left alive?"

  "No one. My men died like Rajputs." A trace of pride flashed throughhis eyes before they dimmed again with sadness. "When they knew theycould not win, that they had failed the prince, they vowed to diefighting. And all did."

  "But you're still alive."

  The words seemed almost like a knife in the Rajput's heart.

  "They would not kill me. Or let me die honorably." He paused and staredat Hawksworth. "There was a reason, but it doesn't concern you."

  "So all the men died? But why did they kill the drivers?"

  "The drivers weren't killed." Vasant Rao looked surprised. "I neversaid that."

  I keep forgetting, Hawksworth told himself, that only high castes countas men in this God-forsaken land.

  "This whole damned country is mad." The absurdity overwhelmed him. "Lowcastes, your own people, handled like slaves, and high castes who killeach other in the name of honor. A pox on Rajputs and their fornicatinghonor."

  "Honor is very important. Without honor what is left? We may as well bewithout caste. The warrior caste lives by a code set down in the Lawsof Manu many thousands of years ago." He saw Hawksworth's impatienceand smiled sadly. "Do you understand what's meant by _dharma_?"

  "It sounds like another damned Hindu invention. Another excuse to takelife."

  "_Dharma_ is something, Captain Hawksworth, without which life nolonger matters. No Christian, or Muslim, has ever been able tounderstand _dharma_, since it is the order that defines our castes--andthose born outside India are doomed to live forever without a caste._Dharma_ defines who we are and what we must do if we are to maintainour caste. Warfare is the _dharma_ of the Kshatriya, the warriorcaste."

  "And I say a pox on caste. What's so honorable about Rajputsslaughtering each other?"

  "Warriors are bound by their _dharma_ to join in battle against otherwarriors. A warrior who fails in his duty sins against the _dharma_ ofhis caste." Vasant Rao paused. "But why am I bothering to tell youthis? I sound like Krishna, lecturing Arjuna on his duty as a warrior."

  "Who's Krishna? Another Rajput?"

  "He's a god, Captain Hawksworth, sacred to all Rajputs. He teaches usthat a warrior must always honor his _dharma_."

  Vasant Rao's eyes seemed to burn through the shadows of the cell. Fromoutside Hawksworth heard the distant chantings of some villageceremony.

  "If you'll listen, _feringhi_ captain, I'll tell you something about awarrior's _dharma_. There's a legend, many thousands of years old, of agreat battle joined between two branches of a powerful dynasty inancient India. Two kings were brothers, and they shared a kingdom, buttheir sons could not live in peace. One branch wished to destroy theother. Eventually a battle was joined, a battle to the death. As theywaited on the field for the sound of the conch shell, to summon theforces, the leader of those sons who had been wronged suddenly declaredthat he could not bring himself to kill his own kinsmen. But the godKrishna, who was charioteer for this son, reminded him he must followhis _dharma_. That there is no greater good for a warrior than to joinbattle for what is right. It's wrong only if he is attached to thefruits of battle, if he does it for gain. It's told in the Bhagavad-Gita, a Sanskrit scripture sacred to all warriors. I was reciting averse from Chapter Twelve when you woke."

  "What did this god Krishna say?"

  "He declared that all who live must die, and all who die will bereborn. The spirit within us all, the _atman_, cannot be destroyed. Ittravels through us on its journey from birth to rebirth. But it's notcorrect to say merely that it exists. It is existence. It is the onlyreality. It is present in everything because it is everything.Therefore there's no need to mourn for death. There is no death. Thebody is merely an appearance, by which the _atman_ reveals itself. Thebody is only its guardian. But a warrior who turns away from the dutyof his caste sins against his honor and his _dharma_. Krishna warnedthat this loss of honor could one day lead to the mixture of castes,and then the dharma of the universe, its necessary order, would bedestroyed. It's not wrong for a Rajput to kill a worthy foe, CaptainHawksworth, it's his duty. Just as it's also his duty to die a worthydeath."

  "Why all this killing in the name of 'honor' and 'duty"?"

  "Non-Hindus always want to know 'why.' To 'understand.' You always seemto believe that words somehow contain all truth. But dharma simply is.It is the air we breathe, the changeless order around us. We're part ofit. Does the earth ask why the monsoons come? Does
the seed ask why thesun shines each day? No. It's _dharma_. The dharma of the seed is tobear fruit. The dharma of the warrior caste is to do battle. Only_feringhi_, who live outside our dharma, ask 'why.' Truth is notsomething you 'understand.' It's something you're part of. It'ssomething you feel with your being. And when you try to catch it withwords, it's gone. Can the eagle tell you how he flies, CaptainHawksworth, or 'why"? If he could, he would no longer be an eagle. Thisis the great wisdom of India. We've learned it's wasted on _feringhi_,Captain, as I fear it's now wasted on you."

  The talk left Hawksworth feeling strangely insecure, his mind wrestlingwith ideas that defied rationality.

  "I know there are things you understand with your gut, not with yourhead."

  "Then there may be hope for you, Captain Hawksworth. Now we will see ifyou can die like a Rajput. If you can, perhaps you will be reborn oneof us."

  "Then I might even learn to be a bandit."

  "All Rajputs are not the same, Captain. There are many tribes,descended from different dynasties. Each has its own tradition andgenealogy. I'm from the north. From the races descended from the moon.This tribe claims descent from the solar dynasty, which also began inthe north. I think their genealogy goes back to the god Indra, who theyclaim brought them into being with the aid of the sun."

  Vasant Rao turned and continued reciting in Sanskrit. His face againbecame a mask.

  Hawksworth rubbed his head in confusion and suddenly felt a hard lumpwhere the club had dropped. The fear began to well up in his stomach ashe remembered the stony-faced riders who had surrounded him in theriver. But he pushed aside thoughts of death.

  _Dharma_ be damned. What did he mean, they're members of a clandescended from the "solar dynasty"? They're killers, looking for anexcuse to plunder.

  I'm not planning to die like a Rajput just yet. Or be reborn as one.Life is too sweet just as it is. I'm beginning to feel alive here, forthe first time ever. Shirin is free. I've got a feeling I'll be seeingher again. Whatever happens, I don't care to die in this piss hole,with empty talk about honor. Think.

  He remembered the river again, and quickly felt in his boot. The otherpistol was still there.

  We'll find a way to get out. Somehow. We may just lose a few days'time, that's all. We made good time so far. Six days. We left onSunday, and we've been here two days. So today is probably Monday.

  He suddenly froze.

  "Where are the carts?"

  "At the south end of the village. Where they have the _chans_, thecattle sheds. The drivers are there too."

  "Is my chest there?"

  "No. It's right there. Behind you." Vasant Rao pointed into the dark."I told them it belonged to the Moghul, and they brought it here. Iguess the Moghul still counts for something here. Maybe they'resuperstitious about him."

  Hawksworth pulled himself up and reached behind him. The chest wasthere. He fingered the cool metal of the lock and his mind began toclear even more. Quickly he began to search his jerkin for the key. Itspockets were empty.

  Of course. If I was tied over a horse it.. .

  Then he remembered. For safety he had transferred it to the pocket ofhis breeches the second day out. He felt down his leg, fighting theache in his arm.

  Miraculously the key was still there.

  He tried to hold his excitement as he twisted it into the lock on thechest. Once, twice, and it clicked.

  He quickly checked the contents. Lute on top. Letter, still wrapped.Clothes. Then he felt deeper and touched the metal. Slowly he drew itout, holding his breath. It was still intact.

  The light from the lamp glanced off the burnished brass of the Persianastrolabe from the observatory. It had been Mukarrab Khan's partinggift.

  He carried it to the slatted window and carefully twisted each slatuntil the sun began to stream through.

  Thank God it's late in the year, when the sun's already lower atmidday.

  He took a quick reading of the sun's elevation. It had not yet reachedits zenith. He made a mental note of the reading and began to wait.Five minutes passed--they seemed hours--and he checked the elevationagain. The sun was still climbing, but he knew it would soon reach itshighest point.

  Vasant Rao continued to chant verses from the Bhagavad- Gita in terse,toneless Sanskrit.

  He probably thinks I'm praying too, Hawksworth smiled to himself.

  The reading increased, then stayed the same, then began to decrease.The sun had passed its zenith, and he had the exact reading of itselevation.

  He mentally recorded the reading, then began to rummage in the bottomof the chest for the seaman's book he always carried with him.

  We left Surat on October twenty-fourth. So October twenty-fifth wasKarod, the twenty-sixth was Viara, the twenty-seventh was Corka, thetwenty-eighth was Narayanpur, the twenty-ninth was the river. Today hasto be October thirty-first.

  The book was there, its pages still musty from the moist air at sea. Hereached the page he wanted and ran his finger down a column of figuresuntil he reached the one he had read off the astrolabe.

  From the reading the latitude here is 21 degrees and 20

  minutes north.

  Then he began to search the chest for a sheaf of papers and finally hisfingers closed around them, buried beneath his spare jerkin. Hesquinted in the half light as he went through the pages, thehandwriting hurried from hasty work in the observatory. Finally hefound what he wanted. He had copied it directly from the old Samarkandastronomer's calculations. The numerals were as bold as the day he hadwritten them. The latitude was there, and the date.

  With a tight smile that pained his aching face he carefully wrapped theastrolabe and returned it to the bottom of the chest, together with thebooks. He snapped the lock in place just as the door of the cell swungopen.

  He looked up to see the face of the man who had swung the club.

  Good Jesus, I thought he was dead. And he looks even younger. . . .

  Then Hawksworth realized it had to be his son. But the heavy brow, thedark beard, the narrow eyes, were all the same, almost as though hisfather's blood had flowed directly into his veins. He wore no helmet orbreastplate now, only a simple robe, entirely white.

  The man spoke curtly to Vasant Rao in a language Hawksworth did notunderstand.

  "He has ordered us to come with him. It's time for the ceremony. Hesays you must watch how the man you killed is honored."

  Vasant Rao rose easily and pinched out the oil lamp. In the darkenedsilence Hawksworth heard the lowing of cattle, as well as the distantdrone of a chant. Outside the guards were waiting. He noted theycarried sheathed swords. And they too were dressed in white.

  In the midday sunshine he quickly tried to survey the terrain. Jaggedrock outcrops seemed to ring the village, with a gorge providing aneasily protected entrance.

  He was right. It's a fortress. And probably impregnable.

  The road was wide, with rows of mud-brick homes on either side, andahead was an open square, where a crowd had gathered. Facing thesquare, at the far end, was an immense house of baked brick, thelargest in the fortress village, with a wide front and a high porch.

  As they approached the square, Hawksworth realized a deep pit had beennewly excavated directly in the center. Mourners clustered nearby,silently waiting, while a group of women--five in all--held hands andmoved slowly around the pit intoning a dirge.

  As they reached the side of the opening he saw the Rajput's body, lyingface up on a fragrant bier of sandalwood and _neem_ branches. His headand beard had been shaved and his body bound in a silk winding sheet.He was surrounded by garlands of flowers. The wood in the pit smelledof _ghee_ and rose-scented coconut oil. Nearby, Brahmin priests recitedin Sanskrit.

  "His body will be cremated with the full honor of a Rajput warrior."Vasant Rao stood alongside. "It's clear the Brahmins have been paidenough."

  Hawksworth looked around at the square and the nearby houses, theirshutters all sealed in mourning. Chanting priests in ceremonial robeshad stationed themselves n
ear the large house, and an Arabian mare, allwhite and bedecked with flowers, was tied at the entrance. Suddenly thetones of mournful, discordant music sounded around him.

  As Hawksworth watched, the heavy wooden doors of the great house openedslowly and a woman stepped into the midday sunshine. Even from theirdistance he could see that she was resplendent--in an immaculate whitewrap that sparkled with gold ornaments--and her movements regal as shedescended the steps and was helped onto the horse. As she rode slowlyin the direction of the pit, she was supported on each side by Brahminpriests, long-haired men with stripes of white clay painted down theirforehead.

  "She is his wife." Vasant Rao had also turned to watch. "Now you'll seea woman of the warrior caste follow her _dharma_."

  As the woman rode slowly by, Hawksworth sensed she was only barelyconscious of her surroundings, as though she had been drugged. Shecircled the pit three times, then stopped near where Hawksworth andVasant Rao were standing. As the priests helped her down from the mare,one urged her to drink again from a cup of dense liquid he carried. Hersilk robe was fragrant with scented oil, and Hawksworth saw thatdecorations of saffron and sandalwood had been applied to her arms andforehead.

  It's a curious form of mourning. She's dressed and perfumed as thoughfor a banquet, not a funeral. And what's she drinking? From the way shemoves I'd guess it's some opium concoction.

  She paused at the edge of the pit and seemed to glare for an instant atthe five women who moved around her. Then she drank again from the cup,and calmly began removing her jewels, handing them to the priest, untilher only ornament was a necklace of dark seeds. Next the Brahminssprinkled her head with water from a pot and, as a bell began to toll,started helping her into the pit. Hawksworth watched in disbelief asshe knelt next to her husband's body and lovingly cradled his headagainst her lap. Her eyes were lifeless but serene.

  The realization of what was happening struck Hawksworth like a blow inthe chest. But how could it be true? It was unthinkable.

  Then the man who had brought them, the son, held out his hand and oneof the Brahmins bowed and handed him a burning torch. It flaredbrilliantly against the dark pile of earth at the front of the pit.

  God Almighty! No! Hawksworth instinctively started to reach for hispistol.

  A deafening chorus of wails burst from the waiting women as the youngman flung the torch directly by the head of the bier. Next the prieststhrew more lighted torches alongside the corpse, followed by more oil.The flames licked tentatively around the edges of the wood, then burstacross the top of the pyre. The fire swirled around the woman, and inan instant her oil-soaked robes flared, enveloping her body andigniting her hair. Hawksworth saw her open her mouth and say something,words he did not understand, and then the pain overcame her and shescreamed and tried frantically to move toward the edge of the pit. Asshe reached the edge she saw the hovering priests, waiting with longpoles to push her away, and she stumbled backward. Her last screamswere drowned by the chorus of wailing women as she collapsed across thebody of her husband, a human torch.

  Hawksworth stepped back in horror and whirled on Vasant Rao, who stoodwatching impassively.

  "This is murder! Is this more of your Rajput 'tradition"?"

  "It is what we call _sati_, when a brave woman joins her husband indeath. Did you hear what she said? She pronounced the words 'five, two'as the life-spirit left her. At the moment of death we sometimes havethe gift of prophecy. She was saying this is the fifth time she hasburned herself with the same husband, and that only two times more arerequired to release her from the cycle of birth and death, to renderher a perfect being."

  "I can't believe she burned herself willingly."

  "Of course she did. Rajput women are noble. It was the way she honoredher husband, and her caste. It was her _dharma_."

  Hawksworth stared again at the pit. Priests were throwing more oil onthe raging flames, which already had enveloped the two bodies and nowlicked around the edges, almost at Hawksworth's feet. The five womenseemed crazed with grief, as they held hands and moved along the edgein a delirious dance. The heat had become intense, and Hawksworthinstinctively stepped back as tongues of fire licked over the edge ofthe pit. The mourning women appeared heedless of their own danger asthey continued to circle, their light cloth robes now only inches fromthe flame. The air was filled with the smell of death and burningflesh.

  They must be mad with grief. They'll catch their clothes . . .

  At that instant the hem of one of the women's robes ignited. Sheexamined the whipping flame with a wild, empty gaze, almost as thoughnot seeing it. Then she turned on the other women, terror and confusionin her eyes.

  Hawksworth was already peeling off his jerkin. He'd seen

  enough fires on the gun deck to know the man whose clothes caughtalways panicked.

  If I can reach her in time I can smother the robe before she's burnedand maimed. Her legs . . .

  Before he could move, the woman suddenly turned and poised herself atthe edge of the roaring pit. She emitted one long intense wail, thenthrew herself directly into the fire. At that moment the robes of asecond woman caught, and she too turned and plunged head-first into theflames.

  Merciful God! What are they doing!

  The three remaining women paused for a moment. Then they clasped hands,and, as though on a private signal, plunged over the edge into theinferno, their hair and robes igniting like dry tinder in a furnace.The women all clung together as the flames enveloped them.

  Hawksworth tried to look again into the pit, but turned away inrevulsion.

  "What in hell is happening?"

  Vasant Rao's eyes were flooded with disbelief.

  "They must have been his concubines. Or his other wives. Only his firstwife was allowed to have the place of honor beside his body. I've. . ."The Rajput struggled for composure. "I've never seen so many women diein a _sati_. It's . . ." He seemed unable to find words. "It's almosttoo much."

  "How did such a murderous custom begin?" Hawksworth's eyes were searednow from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. "It's unworthy ofhumanity."

  "We believe aristocratic Rajput women have always wished to do it. Tohonor their brave warriors. The Moghul has tried to stop it, however.He claims it began only a few centuries ago, when a Rajput rajasuspected the women in his palace were trying to poison him and hisministers. Some believe the raja decreed that custom as protection forhis own life, and then others followed. But I don't think that's true.I believe women in India have always done it, from ancient times. Butwhat does it matter when it began. Now all rani, the wives of rajas,follow their husbands in death, and consider it a great honor. Today itseems his other women also insisted on joining her. I think it wasagainst her wishes. She did not want to share her moment of glory._Sati_ is a noble custom, Captain Hawksworth, part of that Rajputstrength of character wanting in other races."

  A hand seized Hawksworth's arm roughly and jerked him back through thecrowd, a sea of eyes burning with contempt. Amid the drifting smoke hecaught a glimpse of the bullock carts of the caravan, lined along thefar end of the road leading into the fortress. The drivers were nowhereto be seen, but near the carts were cattle sheds for the bullocks.

  If they can send innocent women to their death, life means nothinghere. They'll kill us for sure.

  He turned to Vasant Rao, whose face showed no trace of fear. The Rajputseemed oblivious to the smell of death as smoke from the fire engulfedthe palms that lined the village roads. They were approaching the porchof the great house where the head of the dynasty had lived.

  Two guards shoved Hawksworth roughly to his knees. He looked up to see,standing on the porch of the house, the young man who had tossed thetorch into the pit. He began speaking to them, in the tones of anannouncement.

  "He's the son of the man you killed. He has claimed leadership of thedynasty, and calls himself Raj Singh." Vasant Rao translated rapidly,as the man continued speaking. "He says that tomorrow there will be aneclipse of the sun here. It is pre
dicted in the Panjika, the Hindumanual of astrology. His father, the leader of this dynasty of the sun,has died, and tomorrow the sun will die also for a time. The Brahminshave said it is fitting that you die with it. For high castes in Indiathe death of the sun is an evil time, a time when the two great powersof the sky are in conflict. On the day of an eclipse no fires are litin our homes. Food is discarded and all open earthenware pots aresmashed. No one who wears the sacred thread of the twice-born can beout of doors during an eclipse. The Brahmin astrologers have judged itis the proper time for you to pay for your cowardly act. You will beleft on a pike to die in the center of the square."

  Hawksworth drew himself up, his eyes still smarting from

  the smoke, and tried to fix the man's eyes. Then he spoke, in a voicehe hoped would carry to all the waiting crowd.

  "Tell him his Brahmin astrologers know not the truth, neither past norfuture." Hawksworth forced himself to still the tremble in his voice."There will be no eclipse tomorrow. His Brahmins, who cannot foretellthe great events in the heavens, should have no right to work theirwill on earth."

  "Have you gone mad?" Vasant Rao turned and glared at him as he spat thewords in disgust. "Why not try to die with dignity."

  "Tell him."

  Vasant Rao stared at Hawksworth in dumb amazement. "Do you think we'reall fools. The eclipse is foretold in the Panjika. It is the sacredbook of the Brahmins. It's used to pick auspicious days for ceremonies,for weddings, for planting crops. Eclipses are predicted many yearsahead in the Panjika. They have been forecast in India for centuries.Don't Europeans know an eclipse is a meeting of the sun and moon?Nothing can change that."

  "Tell him what I said. Exactly."

  Vasant Rao hesitated for a few moments and then reluctantly translated.The Rajput chieftain's face did not change and his reply was curt.

  Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He says you are a fool as well as anUntouchable."

  "Tell him that if I am to die with the sun, he must kill me now. I spiton his Brahmins and their Panjika. I say the eclipse will be this veryday. In less than three hours."

  "In one _pahar_?

  "Yes."

  "No god, and certainly no man, can control such things. Why tell himthis invention?" Vasant Rao's voice rose with his anger. "When thisthing does not happen, you will die in even greater dishonor."

  "Tell him."

  Vasant Rao again translated, his voice hesitant. Raj Singh examinedHawksworth skeptically. Then he turned and spoke to one of the tallRajputs standing nearby, who walked to the end of the porch andsummoned several Brahmin priests. After a conference marked by muchangry shouting and gesturing, one of the Brahmins turned and left.Moments later he reappeared carrying a book.

  "They have consulted the Panjika again." Vasant Rao pointed toward thebook as one of the Brahmins directed a stream of language at Raj Singh."He says there is no mistaking the date of the eclipse, and the time.It is in the lunar month of Asvina, which is your September-October.Here in the Deccan the month begins and ends with the full moon. The_tithi_ or lunar day of the eclipse begins tomorrow."

  As Hawksworth listened, he felt his heart begin to race.

  The calculations at the observatory had a lot to say about yourPanjika's lunar calendar. And they showed how unwieldy it is comparedto the solar calendar the Arabs and Europeans use. A cycle of the moondoesn't divide evenly into the days in a year. So your astrologers haveto keep adding and subtracting days and months to keep years the samelength. It's almost impossible to relate a lunar calendar accurately toa solar year. Jamshid Beg, the astronomer from Samarkand, loved tocheck out the predictions in the Hindu Panjika.

  If I deciphered his calculations right, this is one eclipse the Panjikacalled wrong. The astrologer must have miscopied his calculations. Ormaybe he just bungled one of the main rules of lunar bookkeeping. Solardays begin at sunrise, but lunar days are different. The moon can riseat any time of day. According to the system, the lunar day current atsunrise is supposed to be the day that's counted. But if the moon risesjust after sunrise, and sets before sunrise the next day, then thatwhole lunar "day" has to be dropped from the count.

  Today was one of those days. It should have been dropped from the lunarcalendar, but it wasn't. So the prediction in the Panjika is a day off.

  According to Jamshid Beg's calculations, at least. God help me if hewas wrong.

  "Tell him his Panjika is false. If I'm to be killed the day ofthe eclipse, he must kill me now, today."

  Raj Singh listened with increasing disquiet as Vasant Raotranslated. He glanced nervously at the Brahmins and then replied in alow voice.

  Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He asks what proof you have ofyour forecast?"

  Hawksworth looked around. What proof could there be of animpending eclipse?

  "My word is my word."

  Another exchange followed.

  "He is most doubtful you are wiser than the Panjika." Vasant Raopaused for a moment, then continued. "I am doubtful as well. He saysthat if you have invented a lie you are very foolish. And we will allsoon know."

  "Tell him he can believe as he chooses. The eclipse will betoday."

  Again there was an exchange. Then Vasant Rao turned toHawksworth, a mystified expression on his face.

  "He says if what you say is true, then you are an _avatar_, theincarnation of a god. If the eclipse is today, as you say, then thevillage must begin to prepare immediately. People must all moveindoors. Once more, is what you say true?"

  "It's true." Hawksworth strained to keep his voice confident,and his eyes on the Rajput chieftain as he spoke. "It doesn't matterwhether he believes or not."

  Raj Singh consulted again with the Brahmin priests, who had nowgathered around. They shifted nervously, and several spat to emphasizetheir skepticism. Then the Rajput leader returned and spoke again toVasant Rao.

  "He says that he will take the precaution of ordering the highcastes indoors. If what you say comes to pass, then you have saved thevillage from a great harm."

  Hawksworth started to speak but Vasant Rao silenced him with agesture.

  "He also says that if what you say is a lie, he will not waituntil tomorrow to kill you. You will be buried alive at sunset today,up to the throat. Then you will be stoned to death by the women andchildren of the village. It is the death of criminal Untouchables."

  As the smoke from the funeral pyre continued to drift through thevillage, the high-caste men and women entered their homes and sealedtheir doors. Women took their babies in their laps and began theirprayers. Only low castes and children too young to wear the sacredthread remained outside. Even Vasant Rao was allowed to return to theroom where they had been held prisoner. Hawksworth suddenly foundhimself without guards, and he wandered back to the square to look oncemore at the pit where the funeral pyre had been. All that remained ofthe bodies were charred skeletons.

  An hour ago there was life. Now there's death. The difference is thewill to live.

  And luck. The turn of chance.

  Was Jamshid Beg right? If not, God help me . . .

  He knelt down beside the pit. To look at death and to wait.