The Moghul Read online

  CHAPTER SIX

  He felt the palanquin drop roughly onto a hard surface, andwhen the curtains were pulled aside he looked down to see the stonemosaic of a garden courtyard. They had traveled uphill at least part ofthe time, with what seemed many unnecessary turns and windings, and nowthey were hidden from the streets by the high walls of a gardenenclosure. Tall slender palms lined the inside of the garden's whiteplaster wall, and denser trees shaded a central two-story building,decorated around its entry with raised Arabic lettering in ornateplasterwork. The guards motioned him through the large wooden porticoof the house, which he began to suspect might be the residence of awealthy merchant. After a long hallway, they entered a spacious roomwith clean white walls and a thick center carpet over a floor ofpatterned marble inlay. Large pillows lay strewn about the carpet, andthe air hung heavy with the stale scent of spice.

  It's the house of a rich merchant or official, all right. What else canit be? The decorated panels on the doors and the large brass knobs allindicate wealth. But what's the room for? For guests? No. It's tooempty. There's almost no furniture. No bed. No . . .

  Then suddenly he understood. A banquet room.

  He realized he had never seen a more sumptuous private dining hall,even among the aristocracy in London. The guards closed the heavywooden doors, but there was no sound of their footsteps retreating.

  Who are they protecting me from?

  A servant, with skin the color of ebony and a white turban that seemedto enclose a large part of his braided and folded-up beard, pushed openan interior door to deposit a silver tray. More fried bread and a bowlof curds.

  "Where am I? Whose house . . . ?"

  The man bowed, made hand signs pleading incomprehension, and retreatedwithout a word.

  As Hawksworth started to reach for a piece of the bread, the outer dooropened, and one of the guards stepped briskly to the tray and stoppedhis hand. He said nothing, merely signaled to wait. Moments lateranother guard also entered, and with him was a woman. She was unveiled,with dark skin and heavy gold bangles about her ankles. She stared atHawksworth with frightened eyes. Brisk words passed in an alienlanguage, and then the woman pointed to Hawksworth and raised her voiceas she replied to the guard. He said nothing, but simply lifted a long,sheathed knife from his waist and pointed it toward the tray, hisgesture signifying all. After a moment's pause, the woman edged forwardand gingerly sampled the curds with her fingers, first sniffing andthen reluctantly tasting. More words passed, after which the guardsbowed to Hawksworth almost imperceptibly and escorted the woman fromthe room, closing the door.

  Hawksworth watched in dismay and then turned again to examine thedishes.

  If they're that worried, food can wait. Who was she? Probably a slave.Of the Shahbandar?

  He removed his boots, tossed them in the corner, and eased himself ontothe bolsters piled at one end of the central carpet. The wound in hisleg had become a dull ache.

  Jesus help me, I'm tired. What does the Shahbandar really want? Why wasKarim so fearful of him? And what's the role of the governor in allthis? Will all these requests and permissions and permits end updelaying us so long the Portugals will find our anchorage? And whatwill the governor want out of me?

  He tried to focus his mind on the governor, on a figure he sculpted inhis imagination. A fat, repugnant, pompous bureaucrat. But the figureslowly began to transform, and in time it became the Turk who hadimprisoned him in Tunis, with a braided fez and a jeweled dagger at hiswaist. The fat Turk was not listening, he was issuing a decree. Youwill stay. Only then will I have what I want. What I must have. Next aveiled woman entered the room, and her eyes were like Maggie's. Sheseized his hand and guided him toward the women's apartments, past thefrowning guards, who raised large scimitars in interdiction until shewaved them aside. Then she led him to the center of a brilliantlylighted room, until they stood before a large stone pillar, a pillarlike the one in the porters' lodge except it was immense, taller thanhis head. You belong to me now, her eyes seemed to say, and she beganto bind him to the pillar with silken cords. He struggled to freehimself, but the grasp on his wrists only became stronger. In panic hestruck out and yelled through the haze of incense.

  "Let . . . !"

  "I'm only trying to wake you, Captain." A voice cut through thenightmare. "His Eminence, the Shahbandar, has requested that I attendyour wound."

  Hawksworth startled awake and was reaching for his sword before he sawthe swarthy little man, incongruous in a white swath of a skirt and aPortuguese doublet, nervously shaking his arm. The man pulled back inmomentary surprise, then dropped his cloth medicine bag on the floorand began to carefully fold a large red umbrella. Hawksworth noted hewore no shoes on his dusty feet.

  "Allow me to introduce myself." He bowed ceremoniously. "My name isMukarjee. It is my honor to attend the celebrated new _feringhi_." HisTurki was halting and strongly accented.

  He knelt and deftly cut away the wrapping on Hawksworth's leg. "And whoapplied this?" With transparent disdain he began uncoiling the muddybandage. "The Christian _topiwallahs _constantly astound me. Eventhough my daughter is married to one." One eyebrow twitched nervouslyas he worked.

  Hawksworth stared at him through a groggy haze, marveling at thedexterity of his chestnut-brown hands. Then he glanced nervously at thevials of colored liquid and jars of paste the man was methodicallyextracting from his cloth bag.

  "It was our ship's physician. He swathed this after attending a dozenmen with like wounds or worse."

  "No explanations are necessary. _Feringhi_ methods are alwaysunmistakable. In Goa, where I lived for many years after leavingBengal, I once served in a hospital built by Christian priests."

  "You worked in a Jesuit hospital?"

  "I did indeed." He began to scrape away the oily powder residue fromthe wound. Hawksworth's leg jerked involuntarily from the flash ofpain. "Please do not move. Yes, I served there until I could abide itno more. It was a very exclusive hospital. Only _feringhi _were allowedto go there to be bled."

  He began to wash the wound, superficial but already festering, with asolution from one of the vials. "Yes, we Indians were denied thatalmost certain entry into Christian paradise represented by itsportals. But it was usually the first stop for arriving Portuguese,after the brothels."

  "But why do so many Portuguese sicken after they reach Goa?" Hawksworthwatched Mukarjee begin to knead a paste that smelled strongly ofsandalwood spice.

  "It's well that you ask, Captain Hawksworth." Mukarjee tested theconsistency of the sandalwood paste with his finger and then placed itaside, apparently to thicken. "You appear to be a strong man, but aftermany months at sea you may not be as virile as you assume."

  He absently extracted a large, dark green leaf from the pocket of hisdoublet and dabbed it in a paste he kept in a crumpled paper. Then herolled it around the cracked pieces of a small brown nut, popped itinto his mouth, and began to chew. Suddenly remembering himself, hestopped and produced another leaf from his pocket.

  "Would you care to try betel, what they call pan here in Surat? It'svery healthy for the teeth. And the digestion."

  "What is it?"

  "A delicious leaf. I find I cannot live without it, so perhaps it's atrue addiction. It's slightly bitter by itself, but if you roll itaround an areca nut and dip it in a bit of lime--which we make frommollusk shells--it is perfectly exquisite."

  Hawksworth shook his head in wary dissent, whereupon Mukarjeecontinued, settling himself on his haunches and sucking contentedly onthe rolled leaf as he spoke. "You ask why I question your well-being,Captain? Because a large number of the _feringhis_ who come to Goa, andIndia, are doomed to die."

  "You already said that. From what? Poison in their food?"

  Mukarjee examined him quizzically for a moment as he concentrated onthe rolled leaf, savoring the taste, and Hawksworth noticed a redtrickle emerge from the corner of his mouth and slide slowly off hischin. He turned and discharged a mouthful of juice into a small brasscontainer, c
learing his mouth to speak.

  "The most common illness for Europeans here is called the bloody flux."Mukarjee tested the paste again with his finger, and then began to stirit vigorously with a wooden spatula. "For four or five days the bodyburns with intense heat, and then either it is gone or you are dead."

  "Are there no medicines?" Hawksworth watched as he began to spread thepaste over the wound.

  "Of course there are medicines." Mukarjee chuckled resignedly. "But thePortuguese scorn to use them."

  "Probably wisely," Hawksworth reflected. "It's said the flux is causedby an excess of humors in the blood. Bleeding is the only real remedy."

  "I see." Mukarjee began to apply the paste and then to bindHawksworth's leg with a swath of white cloth. "Yes, my friend, that iswhat the Portuguese do--you must hold still--and I have personallyobserved how effective it is in terminating illness."

  "The damned Jesuits are the best physicians in Europe."

  "So I have often been told. Most frequently at funerals." Mukarjeequickly tied a knot in the binding and spat another mouthful of redjuice. "Your wound is really nothing more than a scratch. But you wouldhave been dead in a fortnight. By this, if not by exertion."

  "What do you mean?" Hawksworth rose and tested his leg, amazed that thepain seemed to have vanished.

  "The greatest scourge of all for newly arrived Europeans

  here seems to be our women. It is inevitable, and my greatest source ofamusement." He spat the exhausted betel leaf toward the corner of theroom and paused dramatically while he prepared another.

  "Explain what you mean about the women."

  "Let me give you an example from Goa." Mukarjee squatted again. "ThePortuguese soldiers arriving from Lisbon each year tumble from theirships more dead than alive, weak from months at sea and the inevitablescurvy. They are in need of proper food, but they pay no attention tothis, for they are even more starved for the company of women. . . . Bythe way, how is your wound?" Mukarjee made no attempt to suppress asmile at Hawksworth's astonished testing of his leg.

  "The pain seems to be gone." He tried squatted in Indian style, likeMukarjee, and found that this posture, too, brought no discomfort.

  "Well, these scurvy-weakened soldiers immediately avail themselves ofGoa's many well-staffed brothels--which, I note, Christians seem tofrequent with greater devotion than their fine churches. What uneventest of skill and vigor transpires I would not speculate, but many ofthese _feringhis _soon find the only beds suited for them are in theJesuit's Kings Hospital, where few ever leave. I watched some fivehundred Portuguese a year tread this path of folly." Mukarjee's lipswere now the hue of the rose.

  "And what happens to those who do live?"

  "They eventually wed one of our women, or one of their own, and embracethe life of sensuality that marks the Portuguese in Goa. With twenty,sometimes even thirty slaves to supply their wants and pleasure. Andafter a time they develop stones in the kidney, or gout, or some otheraffliction of excess."

  "What do their wives die of? The same thing?"

  "Some, yes, but I have also seen many charged with adultery by theirfat Portuguese husbands--a suspicion rarely without grounds, for theyreally have nothing more to do on hot afternoons than chew betel andintrigue with the lusty young soldiers--and executed. The women are saidto deem it an honorable martyrdom, vowing they die for love."

  Mukarjee rose and began meticulously replacing the vials in his clothbag. "I may be allowed to visit you again if you wish, but I thinkthere's no need. Only forgo the company of our women for a time, myfriend. Practice prudence before pleasure."

  A shaft of light from the hallway cut across the room, as the dooropened without warning. A guard stood in the passageway, wearing auniform Hawksworth had not seen before.

  "I must be leaving now." Mukarjee's voice rose to public volume as henervously scooped up his umbrella and his bag, without pausing tosecure the knot at its top. Then he bent toward Hawksworth with a quickwhisper. "Captain, the Shahbandar has sent his Rajputs. You must takecare."

  He deftly slipped past the guard in the doorway and was gone.

  Hawksworth examined the Rajputs warily. They wore leather helmetssecured with a colored headband, knee- length tunics over heavy tight-fitting trousers, and a broad cloth belt. A large round leather shieldhung at each man's side, suspended from a shoulder strap, and eachguard wore an ornate quiver at his waist from which protruded a heavyhorn bow and bamboo arrows. All were intent and unsmiling. Theirleader, his face framed in a thicket of coarse black hair, steppedthrough the doorway and addressed Hawksworth in halting Turki.

  "The Shahbandar has requested your presence at the customs house. I amto inform you he has completed all formalities for admission of yourpersonal chest and has approved it with his _chapp_."

  The palanquin was nowhere to be seen when they entered the street, butnow Hawksworth was surrounded. As they began walking he noticed thepain in his leg was gone. The street was lined by plaster walls and thecool evening air bore the scent of flowers from their concealedgardens. The houses behind the walls were partially shielded by talltrees, but he could tell they were several stories high, with flatroofs on which women clustered, watching.

  These must all be homes of rich Muslim merchants. Palaces for theprinces of commerce. And the streets are filled with dark-skinned,slow-walking poor. Probably servants, or slaves, in no hurry to end theerrand that freed them from their drudgery inside.

  Then as they started downhill, toward the river, they began to passtile-roofed, plaster-walled homes he guessed were owned by Hindumerchants, since they were without gardens or the high walls Muslimsused to hide their women. As they neared the river the air started togrow sultry, and they began passing the clay-walled huts of shopkeepersand clerks, roofed in palm leaves with latticework grills for windows.Finally they reached the bazaar of Surat, its rows of palm treesdeserted now, with silence where earlier he had heard a tumult ofhawkers and strident women's voices. Next to the bazaar stood thestables, and Hawksworth noticed flocks of small boys, naked save for aloincloth, scavenging to find any dung cakes that had been overlookedby the women who collected fuel. The air was dense and smelled ofearth, and its taste overwhelmed his lingering memory of the wind offthe sea.

  The streets of Surat converged like the spokes of a wheel, with thecustoms house and port as its hub. Just like every port town in theworld, Hawksworth smiled to himself: all roads lead to the sea.

  Except here all roads lead to the customs house and the Shahbandar.

  Then, as they approached the last turn in the road, just outside theenclosure of the customs house, they were suddenly confronted by a bandof mounted horsemen, armed with long-barreled muskets. The horsemenspanned the roadway and were probably twenty in all, well outnumberingthe Rajputs. The horsemen made no effort to move aside as Hawksworthand his guards approached.

  Hawksworth noticed the Rajputs stiffen slightly and their hands droploosely to the horn bows protruding from their quivers, but they didnot break their pace.

  My God, they're not going to halt. There'll be bloodshed. And we'resure to lose.

  Without warning a hand threw Hawksworth sprawling against the thickplaster side of a building, and a large, round

  rhino-hide buckler suddenly was covering his body, shielding himentirely from the horsemen.

  Next came a melee of shouts, and he peered out to see the Rajputsencircling him, crouched in a firing pose, each bow aimed on a horsemanand taut with its first arrow. The musket-bearing horsemen fumbled withtheir still uncocked weapons. In lightning moves of only seconds, theRajputs had seized the advantage.

  Not only are their bows more accurate than muskets, Hawksworth thought,they're also handier. They can loose half a dozen arrows before amusket can be reprimed. But what was the signal? I saw nothing, heardnothing. Yet they acted as one. I've never before seen such speed, suchdiscipline.

  Then more shouting. Hawksworth did not recognize the language, but heguessed it might be Urdu, the mixtu
re of imported Persian and nativeHindi Karim had said was used in the Moghul's army as a compromisebetween the language of its Persian-speaking officers and the Hindi-speaking infantry. The Rajputs did not move as the horseman in the leadwithdrew a rolled paper from his waist and contemptuously tossed itonto the ground in front of them.

  While the others covered him with their bows, the leader of the Rajputsadvanced and retrieved the roll from the dust. Hawksworth watched as heunscrolled it and examined in silence. At the bottom Hawksworth couldmake out the red mark of a _chapp_, like the one he had seen on bundlesin the customs house. The paper was passed among the Rajputs, eachstudying it in turn, particularly the seal. Then there were moreshouts, and finally resolution. The dark-bearded leader of Hawksworth'sguard approached him and bowed. Then he spoke in Turki, his voicebetraying none of the emotion Hawksworth had witnessed moments before.

  "They are guards of the governor, Mukarrab Khan. They have shown usorders by the Shahbandar, bearing his seal, instructing that you betransferred to their care. You will go with them."

  Then he dropped his bow casually into his quiver and led the other menoff in the direction of the customs house, all still marching, asthough they knew no other pace.

  "Captain Hawksworth, please be tolerant of our Hindu friends. They aresingle-minded soldiers of fortune, and a trifle old-fashioned in theirmanners." The leader of the guard smiled and pointed to a riderlesssaddled horse being held by one of the riders. "We have a mount foryou. Will you kindly join us?"

  Hawksworth looked at the horse, a spirited Arabian mare, and then atthe saddle, a heavy round tapestry embroidered in silver thread withtassels front and back, held by a thick girth also of tapestry. Thestirrups were small triangles of iron held by a leather strap attachedto a ring at the top of the girth. A second tapestry band around themare's neck secured the saddle near the mane. The mane itself had beenwoven with decorations of beads and small feathers. The horse's neckwas held in a permanent arch by a leather checkrein extending from thebase of the bridle through the chest strap, and secured to the lowergirth. The mare pranced in anticipation, while her coat sparkled in thewaning sun. She was a thing of pure beauty.

  "Where are we going?"

  "But of course. The governor, Mukarrab Khan, has staged a smallcelebration this afternoon and would be honored if you could join him.Today is the final day of Ramadan, our month-long Muslim fast. He's atthe _chaugan_ field. But come, patience is not his most enduringquality."

  Hawksworth did not move.

  "Why did the Shahbandar change his order? We were going to the customshouse to fetch my chest."

  "The governor is a persuasive man. It was his pleasure that you joinhim this afternoon. But please mount. He is waiting." The man strokedhis moustache with a manicured hand as he nodded toward the waitingmount. "His Excellency sent one of his finest horses. I think he has asurprise for you."

  Hawksworth swung himself into the saddle, and immediately his maretossed her head in anticipation. She was lanky and spirited, nothinglike the lumbering mount his father had once taught him to ride at thearmy's camp outside London so many, many years ago.

  Without another word the men wheeled their horses and started off in adirection parallel to the river. Then the one who had spoken abruptlyhalted the entire party.

  "Please forgive me, but did I introduce myself? I am the secretary toHis Excellency, Mukarrab Khan. We were cast from the civilized comfortsof Agra onto this dung heap port of Surat together. Perhaps it was ourstars."

  Hawksworth was only half-listening to the man. He turned and lookedback over his shoulder in time to see the Rajputs entering into thecompound of the customs house. The leader of the horsemen caught hisglance and smiled.

  "Let me apologize again for our friends of the Rajput guard. You dounderstand they have no official standing. They serve whomever they arepaid to serve. If that thief, the Shahbandar, discharged them tomorrowand then another hired them to kill him, they would do so without aword. Rajputs are professional mercenaries, who do battle as coldly asthe tiger hunts game." He turned his horse onto a wide avenue thatparalleled the river. The sunlight was now filtered through the haze ofevening smoke from cooking fires that was enveloping the city.

  "Do Rajputs also serve the governor?"

  The man laughed broadly and smoothed the braided mane of his horse ashe twisted sideways in the saddle and repeated Hawksworth's questionfor the other riders. A peal of amusement cut the quiet of the eveningstreets.

  "My dear English captain, he might wish to hang them, but he wouldnever hire them. His Excellency has the pick of the Moghul infantry andcavalry in this district, men of lineage and breeding. Why should heneed Hindus?"

  Hawksworth monitored the riders carefully out of the corner of his eyeand thought he detected a trace of nervousness in their mirth. Yes, hetold himself, why use Hindus--except the Shahbandar's Hindu mercenariesgot the advantage of you in only seconds. While you and your pick ofthe Moghul cavalry were fiddling with your uncocked muskets. Perhapsthere's a good reason the Shahbandar doesn't hire men of lineage andbreeding.

  Hawksworth noticed they were paralleling a wall of the city, a highbrick barrier with iron pikes set along its capstone. Abruptly the wallcurved across the road they were traveling and they were facing amassive wooden gate that spanned the width of the street. Suddenlyguards appeared, each in uniform and holding a pike. They hurriedlyswung wide the gate as the procession approached, then snapped crisplyto attention along the roadside.

  "This is the Abidjan Gate." The secretary nodded in response to thesalute of the guards. "You can just see the field from here." Hepointed ahead, then urged his horse to a gallop. A cooling dampness wasinvading the evening air, and now the sun had entirely disappeared intothe cloud of dense cooking smoke that boiled above the city, layering adark mantle over the landscape. Again Hawksworth felt his apprehensionrising. What's the purpose of bringing me to a field outside the city,with dark approaching? He instinctively fingered the cool handle of hissword, but its feel did nothing to ease his mind.

  Then he heard cheers from the field ahead, and saw a burning ball flyacross the evening sky. Ahead was a large green, and on it horsemenraced back and forth, shouting and cursing in several languages, theirhorses jostling recklessly. Other mounted horsemen watched from theside of the green and bellowed encouragement.

  As they approached the edge of the field, Hawksworth saw one of theplayers capture the burning ball, guiding it along the green with along stick whose end appeared to be curved. He spurred his mottled graymount toward two tall posts stationed at one end of the green. Anotherplayer was hard in chase, and his horse, a dark stallion, was closingrapidly toward the rolling ball. As the first player swept upward withhis stick, lofting the burning ball toward the posts, the second playerpassed him and--in a maneuver that seemed dazzling to Hawksworth--circledhis own stick over his head and captured the ball in midair, deflectingit toward the edge of the green where Hawksworth and his guards waited.Cheers went up from some of the players and spectators, and thehorsemen all dashed for the edge of the green in chase of the ball,which rolled in among Hawksworth's entourage and out of play. Thehorseman on the dark stallion suddenly noticed Hawksworth and, with ashout to the other players, whipped his steed toward the arrivinggroup.

  As he approached, Hawksworth studied his face carefully. He was pudgybut still athletic, with a short, well-trimmed moustache and a tightlywound turban secured with a large red stone that looked like a ruby. Hecarried himself erect, with a confidence only full vigor could impart,yet his face was incongruously debauched, almost ravaged, and his eyesdeeply weary. There was no hint of either triumph or pleasure in thoseeyes or in his languorous mouth, although he had just executed asensational block of an almost certain score. He reined his wheezingmount only when directly in front of Hawksworth, sending up a cloud ofdust.

  "Are you the English captain?" The voice was loud, with an impatienttone indicating long years of authority.

  "I comma
nd the frigates of the East India Company." Hawksworth tried tokeep his gaze steady. What sort of man can this be, he asked himself?Is this the one who can demand the Shahbandar's signature and sealwhenever he wishes?

  "Then I welcome you, Captain." The dark stallion reared suddenly for noapparent reason, in a display of exuberance. The man expertly reinedhim in, never removing his gaze from Hawksworth, and continued in aneven voice. "I've been most eager to meet the man who is suddenly sointeresting to our Portuguese friends. Although I have a personal rulenever to dabble in the affairs of Europeans, as a sportsman I mustcongratulate you on your victory. A pity I missed the encounter."

  "I accept your congratulations on behalf of the East India Company."Hawksworth watched him for some sign of his attitude toward thePortuguese, but he could detect nothing but smooth diplomacy.

  "Yes, the East India Company. I suppose this company of yours wantssomething from India, and I can easily imagine it might be profit.Perhaps I should tell you straightaway that such matters bore me not alittle." The man glanced impatiently back toward the field. "But come,it's growing darker as we talk. I'd hoped you might join us in ourlittle game. It's elementary. Should be child's play for a man whocommands at sea." He turned to one of the men standing by the side ofthe field. "Ahmed, prepare a stick for Captain ... by the way, I wasn'tgiven your name."

  "Hawksworth."

  "Yes. Prepare a stick for Captain Hawksworth. He'll be joining us."

  Hawksworth stared at the man, trying to gauge his impulsiveness.

  "You, I presume, are the governor."

  "Forgive me. I so rarely find introductions required. Mukarrab Khan,your humble servant. Yes, it's my fate to be governor of Surat, butonly because there's no outpost less interesting. But come, we loseprecious time." He pivoted his pawing mount about and signaled for anew ball to be ignited.

  "You'll find our game very simple, Captain Hawksworth. The object is totake the ball between the posts you see there, what we call the _hal_.There are two teams of five players, but we normally rotate playersevery twenty minutes." His horse reared again in anticipation as thenew ball was brought onto the field. "Years ago we played only duringthe hours of day, but then our Moghul's father, the great Akman,introduced the burning ball, so he could play at night. It's _palas_wood, very light and slow-burning."

  Hawksworth felt a nudge on his hand and looked down to see a stickbeing passed upward by one of the attendants. The handle was sheathedin silver, and the stick itself was over six feet long, with aflattened curve at the bottom, like a distorted shepherd's crook.Hawksworth lifted it gingerly, testing its weight, and was surprised byits lightness.

  "You will be playing on the team of Abul Hasan." He nodded toward amiddle-aged man with a youthful face and no moustache. "He is a _qazi_here in Surat, a judge who interprets and dispenses law, and when he'snot busy abusing the powers of his office, he presumes to challenge meat _chaugan_." The official bowed slightly but did not smile. Hisdappled gray mare was sniffing at the governor's stallion. "He thinkshe has me at a disadvantage, since in Agra we played with only onegoal, whereas here they use two, but _chaugan _is a test of skill, notrules. He leads the white turbans." Only then did Hawksworth noticethat the governor's team all wore red turbans.

  The governor waved to his attendant. "A clean turban for the Englishcaptain."_

  _"I'd prefer to play as I am." Hawksworth saw a flash of disbelief inthe governor's eyes. It was obvious he was never contradicted. "I neverwear a hat, though it seems in India I'm still called a _topiwallah_.

  "Very well, Captain Hawksworth. The _topiwallah _wears no turban." Heseemed to smile as he turned to the other players and signaled for playto start. "Abul Hasan's team is composed of Surat officials, Captain.You will notice, however, that I am teamed with some of our merchants--Muslim, of course, not Hindus--something I must do to ensure challengingopponents. The mere presence of merchants here today should give yousome idea how very tedious I find living in Surat. In Agra no merchantwould be allowed near a _chaugan _field. But here my officials enjoywinning their money so much that I am forced to relent." And he laughedwarmly.

  The burning ball was slammed toward the middle of the field, and theplayers spurred their horses after it in lunging pursuit. Hawksworthgripped the _chaugan_ stick in his right hand and the reins in theother as his mount galloped after the others, obviously eager to begin.The red turbans reached the ball first, with the governor in the lead.He caught the ball on a bounce and, wielding his stick in a gracefularc, whipped it under the neck of the dark stallion and directly towardthe _hal_, while in the same motion reining in his mount sharply tofollow its trajectory.

  But a white turban had anticipated his shot and was already in positionto intercept the ball. He cut directly in front of the governor's pathand with a practiced swipe bulleted the ball back toward the center ofthe field, knocking a spray of sparks across the face of the governor'shorse. Mukarrab Khan's stallion seemed scarcely to notice as he reared,whirled, and flew in chase.

  The shot had passed over the heads of the three other white turbans andbounced off the grass a few feet behind Hawksworth, still well to therear. Hawksworth reined his mount about and bore down on the ball,beginning to feel some of the exhilaration of the play. He reached theball on its second bounce and with a rigid arc of his arm swung the_chaugan _stick.

  The impact recoiled a dizzying shock through the wood and up his rightshoulder. He dimly heard the cheers of his teammates, seeming tocongratulate him on his stroke. But where's the ball? he wondered as hescanned the darkened, empty expanse down the field. Then he realized hehad only deflected it, back toward the three white turbans in thecenter of the field. The last white turban in the row snared the ballwith his stick, deflecting it again, but now in the direction of thereds.

  Dust was boiling from the surface of the field, increasingly obscuringthe players and the play. The darkened arena had become a jostling mob,friend scarcely distinguishable from foe, and all in pursuit of theonly certain object, the still-glowing ball. Hawksworth's eyes searedand his throat choked as he raced after the others--always, it seemed,bringing up the rear, while his mount took her head and rarelyacknowledged his awkward attempts to command. He clung to the iron ringof his saddle, content merely to stay astride.

  Give me a quarterdeck any day.

  The red turbans again had command of the ball, and Hawksworth watchedas the governor now raced to the lead, urged on by his teammates. Hesnared the ball effortlessly and with a powerful swing sent it arcingback toward his own _hal_.

  The other red turbans rushed in pursuit, but a white turban was alreadyat the _hal_, waiting to deflect the play. He snared the ball in thecrook of his stick and flung it back toward the center. The reds seemedto anticipate this, for they reined as one man and dashed back. But nowa white had control, and he guided the ball alone across the grassyexpanse, while a phalanx of other whites rode guard. Hawksworth wasstill lagging in front of his own _hal_ when suddenly he saw the balllofting toward him, a flaming mortar in the darkened sky.

  It slammed to earth near his horse's flank, spewing sparks. He cut hismare sharply to the left and galloped in pursuit. Above the shouts heonly dimly heard the reds thundering behind him, closing in as hereached the ball and caught it in the curve of his stick.

  Roll it, he told himself, keep it on the ground . . .

  The reds were on him. In what seemed a swing for the ball, Abul Hasanbrought his stick in a wide arc, its hardened crook accuratelyintersecting Hawksworth's directly in the middle. Hawksworth felt anuneven shudder pulse through his arm and heard his own stick shatter.The lower half flew to his right, and he watched in dismay as it sailedacross the path of Mukarrab Khan's mount, just as the governor cutinward to block Hawksworth. The hard wood caught the dark stalliondirectly across its front shins, and the horse stumbled awkwardly.Hawksworth stared at horse and rider dumbly for a moment, as thestallion lost its stride, and he suddenly realized the governor's horsewould fall. And when it did, Mu
karrab Khan would be thrown directlybelow the horses thundering behind them.

  He cut his mount sharply to the right and deliberately slammed into thegovernor's stallion. Mukarrab Khan's dazed eyes flashed understandingand he stretched for the center ring of Hawksworth's saddle during thefractional second their horses were in collision. At the same instant,he disengaged himself from his own stirrups and pulled himself acrossthe neck of Hawksworth's mare.

  Two alert reds pulled their mounts alongside Hawksworth and grabbed thereins of his mare. The dark stallion collapsed in the dust behind themwith a pitiful neigh. Then it rose and limped painfully toward the edgeof the field, its left foreleg dangling shattered and useless. MukarrabKhan lowered himself to the ground with an elaborate oath.

  A cheer sounded as the whites scored the ball unmolested.

  Hawksworth was still watching the governor when one of the attendantsrushed from the sidelines, seized the silver-topped fragment of hisbroken stick, and thrust it toward him.

  "The silver is yours to keep, Sahib. It is the custom that one whose_chaugan_ stick is broken in play may keep its silver tip. As a tokenof bravery. For you it is especially deserved." He was short, swarthy,and dressed in a dust- covered white shirt. He bowed slightly, whilehis eyes gleamed their admiration in the darkness.

  "Take it, Captain. It is an honor." Abul Hasan rode up stiffly,brushing the dust from the mane of his horse. "No _feringhi_, to myknowledge, has ever before attempted _chaugan_, and certainly none hasearned a silver knob."

  "Captain Hawksworth, you rode well." Mukarrab Khan had commandeered amount and also drew alongside. There was a light scratch along theright side of his face, and the whimsical look had vanished from hiseyes as he searched the faces clustered around. "A very curiousaccident. It has never happened before." He stared directly atHawksworth. "How was your stick broken?"

  "The _feringhi_ made an unfortunate swing, Excellency," Abul Hasaninterjected. "He played superbly, for a beginner, but he has still tofully master the stroke."

  "Obviously. But he compensated by his luck--my luck-- in saving me from afall. He rides well enough, no matter how uncertain his stroke." Thegovernor examined them both skeptically.

  Hawksworth watched the exchange in incredulous silence. The _qazi_ maybe covering for his own accident. Or perhaps it wasn't an accident. Andif not, then he tried to kill the Mukarrab Khan in a way that wouldlook like it was my responsibility.

  "I still maintain it was most curious." Mukarrab Khan turned to watchas the stable-keepers prepared to shoot his favorite horse. "But tellme now what you think of _chaugan_, Captain Hawksworth?"

  "It's exhilarating. And dangerous. A seaman might say it's like takingthe whipstaff all alone in a gale, without a safety line." Hawksworthtried unsuccessfully to decipher Mukarrab Khan's thoughts.

  "A quaint analogy, but doubtless apt." He tried to smile. "You know,Captain, there are those who mistakenly regard _chaugan _as merely agame, whereas it is actually much, much more. It's a crucible ofcourage. It sharpens one's quickness of mind, tests one's powers ofdecision. The great Akman believed the same, and for that reason heencouraged it years ago among his officials. Of course it requireshorsemanship, but in the last count it's a flawless test of manhood.You did not entirely disappoint me. I suspect you English could one daybe worthy of our little game."

  A shot rang out, and the governor's face went pale for an instant, hiseyes glossed with sadness. Then he turned again to Hawksworth.

  "Deplorable waste. To think I bought him just last year especially for_chaugan_. From a grasping Arab, a confirmed thief who sensed I fanciedthat stallion and absolutely refused to bargain." The voice was calmernow, the official facade returning. "But enough. Perhaps I couldinterest you in a drink?"

  He signaled toward the edge of the field, and a waiting groom rantoward them, bearing a black clay pot with a long spout.

  "The sun has set. Ramadan is finished for this year. So I will joinyou. Let me show you how we drink on horseback." He lifted the potabove his head, tilted the spout toward him, and caught the streameffortlessly in his mouth. Then he passed it to Hawksworth. "It'scalled _sharbat_. The _topiwallahs _all seem to like it andmispronounce it 'sherbet.'"

  The water was sugar sweet and tangy with bits of lemon. God, Hawksworththought, would we had barrels of this for the voyage home. As he drank,drenching his beard, he first noticed the icy stars, a splendor of coldfire in an overhead canopy. The town's smoke had been banished by thefreshening wind, and a placid silence now mantled the field. Theplayers were preparing to leave, and the grooms were harnessing theremaining horses to lead them home.

  "Tonight we feast to mark the end of Ramadan, Captain, our month offasting during daylight hours. It's an evening celebrating the returnof sensual pleasure." Mukarrab Khan stared at Hawksworth for a moment."By the looks of you, I'd suspect you're no Jesuit. I would be honoredif you could join me." He forced a blithe cheerfulness his weary eyesbelied.

  As Hawksworth listened, he realized he very much wanted to go. To losehimself for a time. And suddenly the words of Huyghen, and of RogerSymmes, flashed through his mind. Of the India you would not want toleave. _Until you would not be able to leave.

  _As they rode toward the town, Mukarrab Khan fell silent. And AbulHasan, too, seemed lost in his own thoughts. Hawksworth slowly let hishorse draw to the rear in order to count the governor's personalretinue of guards. Thirty men, with quivers of arrows beside theirsaddle, pikes at their right stirrup, and a matchlock musket. As theyrode, the other horsemen eyed Hawksworth warily, keeping to themselvesand making no effort to talk. Hawksworth thought he sensed anunderlying hostility lurking through the crowd, but whether it wasbetween the merchants and officials, or toward him, he could notdiscern.

  Then a presumptuous thought passed through his mind.

  Could this entire scene have been staged by Mukarrab Khan to somehowtest me? But to what purpose? What could he want to find out?

  Whatever it was, I think he just may have found it.

  Then he leaned back in the saddle, pushed aside his misgivings, andsampled the perfumed evening air.