*
Hawksworth was suddenly awake. The chill of early dawn penetrated his face and hands, and his hair sparkled with light jewels of dew. His leather couch was moist and glistening, while the pale sky above was blocked by a tapestried canopy. Only in the east, above the white railing of the rooftop, could he see the glitter of a waning Venus, her brief reign soon to dissolve in the red wash of early sun. He looked about his white brick enclosure and saw only a light wooden door leading into a second-floor apartment.
He had no sooner drawn himself up to inhale the flower- scented dawn than two smiling men were standing over him, bowing. Both wore turbans, pastel-colored jackets, and a white wrap about their lower torso. Squinting into their eyes, Hawksworth remembered them from the evening before. They had brought the basin of water in which he had first washed.
As he pulled the embroidered coverlet closer about him he noticed a strange numbness in his body. And his mind ached as he tried to remember what precisely had happened.
There was a game on horseback with the governor, and then a banquet, with an argument in which Mukarrab Khan threatened to betray us to the Portugals, a curious evening of music. And then dreams . . .
Pulling himself up off the couch, he started unsteadily across the hard flat tile of the roof. Immediately a servant was beside him, producing a heavy silk wrap and swathing it around his shoulders and waist. Then the man bowed again and spoke in accented Turki.
"May Allah prosper you today, Sahib. May your fortunes answer the prayers of the poor." The man's expression softened to match his own compliment. "Should it please the Sahib, his morning bath is waiting."
Without thinking, without even hearing the words, he allowed himself to be led through the doorway into the second-floor apartment. There, in the center of the room, was his chest, its lock intact. He examined it with a quick glance, then followed the servants down a set of stone stairs to the ground-floor veranda—where a steaming marble tub waited.
Good Jesus, not again! How can I make them understand? Bathing weakens a man.
He started to turn, but suddenly two eunuchs appeared out of nowhere and were guiding him up the two marble steps to a stone platform, where they seated him on a filigreed wooden stool. Silently the servants stripped away his light wrap and began to knead his body and his hair with a fragrant powder, a blend of wood bark and some astringent fruit. The scent was mild, pleasant, and as their hands traveled over him he felt the pores of his skin open to divulge their residual rankness.
This is better, he thought. Cleaning without water. With only some sort of powder. I feel refreshed already.
His muscles loosened as the men vigorously worked the mixture into his skin and then carefully cleansed it away with bulky cotton towels. Next they turned to his hair, combing and massaging more of the powder through it strand by strand. At last they signaled for him to rise and enter the tub. Its surface glistened with a perfumed oil, and the rising steam smelled faintly of clove. Before he could protest, the eunuchs guided him down the marble steps.
As he settled into the steam again he was surrounded by waiting servants, who sprinkled more oil over the water and massaged the emulsion into his hair and skin.
I'm being bathed in oil, he smiled, marveling. It's absurd, yet here it seems perfectly right.
The men worked devotedly, as though he were an inanimate utensil whose purity was their lifelong obligation. His body now glistened with a reddish tint of the oil, matching the early glow of the sun that penetrated the half- shuttered windows. As they motioned for him to leave the bath, he discovered to his amazement that he would have been perfectly content to stay. Forever. But again hands were there, guiding him, this time toward a low wooden bench covered with thick woven tapestries.
What now? What else can they do? I'm cleaner than the day I was born. What more . . .
He was prostrate on the couch. A rough haircloth worked against his legs and torso, sending the blood surging. At the same time, a piece of porous sandstone in the practiced hands of another servant stripped away the loosened calluses and scales from his boot-roughened feet. A third man massaged still more perfumed oil, hinting of aloe and orange, into his back and along his sides and shoulders. His body had become an invigorated, pliant reed.
They motioned for him to sit up and, as he watched, one of the men produced a mirror and razor. Next he opened a bottle of fragrant liquid and began to apply it to Hawksworth's beard and chest. And then also to his legs and crotch.
"What's the purpose of that razor?"
"We have orders to shave you, Sahib, in our manner." The turbaned man who had greeted him that morning bowed slightly as he signaled the barber to begin. "You are to be shaved completely, as is our custom."
"Trim my beard if you like. But no more. Damn you if you'll shave me like some catamite." Hawksworth started to rise from his stool, but the barber was already over him, the blade flying across his face with a menacing deftness.
"It has been ordered, Sahib." The turbaned man bowed again, and without pausing for a reply produced a short, curved metal device and began to probe Hawksworth's ears, his face intent in concentration as he carefully extracted an enormous ball of gray mud and encrusted sea salt. He scraped the other ear with the same deft twist. Then he flipped the same instrument and began to trim Hawksworth's ragged fingernails.
Hawksworth turned to the mirror to discover that his beard had already disappeared, leaving him clean-faced.
At least I'll be in fashion back home, he thought, if I ever get back. Beards are passing from style.
But what's he doing now? By heaven, no . . .
The razor swept cleanly across Hawksworth's chest, leaving a swath of soft skin in its wake. It came down again, barely missing a nipple as he moved to rise.
"You must be still, Sahib. You will harm yourself."
"I told you I'll not have it." Hawksworth pushed the razor away.
"But it is our custom." The man seemed to plead. "Khan Sahib ordered that you be groomed as an honored guest."
"Well, damn your customs. Enough."
There was a moment of silence. Then the turbaned man bowed, his face despondent.
"As the Sahib desires."
He signaled the barber to rub a light coat of saffron-scented oil on Hawksworth's face and then to begin trimming Hawksworth's hair with the pair of silver scissors he had brought. The barber quickly snipped away the growth of the voyage, leaving the hair moderately cropped, in the Moghul fashion.
Hawksworth examined the mirror again.
Damn if I wouldn't make a proper Cheapside dandy. Right in style. And I hate being in style.
Then the turbaned man produced a heavy lead comb and began to work it repeatedly through Hawksworth's hair. Hawksworth watched the mirror in confusion.
What's he doing? It's already been combed. And it's so short there's no point anyway.
Then he noticed the slight traces of gray around the sides beginning to darken, taking on the color of the lead.
"Please open your mouth." The turbaned man stood above him holding a dark piece of wood, frayed at the end and crooked. "And I will scrape your teeth with nim root."
"But that's insane. Teeth are cleaned with a piece of cloth and a toothpick. Or rubbed with a bit of sugar and salt ash . . ."
The man was scrubbing away at Hawksworth's mouth— tongue, gums, teeth—using a dentifrice that tasted like burnt almond shells. Next he offered a mint-flavored mouth rinse to remove the debris.
The turbaned man then inspected Hawksworth critically from several sides, finally venturing to speak.
"If I may suggest, a bit of collyrium, castor oil darkened with lampblack, would render your eyes much more striking." Without waiting for confirmation, he applied a few quick strokes to Hawksworth's eyelids, much as an artist might touch up a canvas.
Then one of the eunuchs stepped forward and supplied a silver tray to the turbaned servants. On it were folded garments: a tight-fitting pair of blue t
rousers, a patterned shirt, and a knee-length coat of thin, peach-colored muslin. They dressed Hawksworth quickly, and then secured a patterned sash about his waist. Waiting on the floor were leather slippers, low-quartered with a curved toe and a bent-down back.
"What have you done with my doublet and breeches? And my boots?"
"They are being cleaned today, Sahib. You may have them again when you wish. But you may prefer to wear our garments while our guest." The turbaned man bowed again, then he moved away and held a long mirror for Hawksworth to examine himself.
"Have we pleased you, Sahib?"
Hawksworth scarcely recognized himself. He had been transformed from a rank but honest seaman into a Moghul noble—youthful, smooth-skinned, smelling of spice. The soreness was banished from his limbs, and even his wound had all but disappeared. His hair was clean and completely dark, and his skin glowed. And his new clothes were more elaborate than anything he had ever worn.
"Now if you will please follow us to the garden. Khan Sahib has suggested you begin your day with some tari wine."
Hawksworth followed the men through the shuttered doorway into the open courtyard. The morning sun now illuminated the tops of a large grove of palm trees that circled an open cistern. He quickly surveyed the buildings, hoping to gain his bearings.
So I've been quartered in one of the side buildings, off the main palace. But there are many, many rooms. Who's living here?
A group of servants stood waiting at the base of one of the palms. When they saw Hawksworth, they mobilized to action. One young man among them, wearing a white wrap around his lower torso, immediately secured his belt and began to shimmy up the leaning palm. When he reached the top he locked his legs around the trunk and carefully detached an earthen pot that hung beneath an incision in the bark of the tree. Balancing the pot in one hand, he stretched and nimbly pulled off a number of leaves from the tree and then lowered himself carrying his load. The moment his feet touched ground he raced toward the veranda and delivered the pot and leaves to a waiting eunuch.
Hawksworth watched as the eunuchs first inspected the items and then ordered them prepared. The leaves were washed thoroughly with water from the cistern and then folded into natural cups. The liquor from the pot was strained through muslin into a crystal decanter and the earthen receptacle discarded. Then one of the turbaned servants poured a large portion of the liquor from the decanter into a palm-leaf cup and offered it to Hawksworth.
"It's tari wine, Sahib. One of the pleasures of early morning in India." His matter-of-fact manner could not entirely hide his pride. "Palm wine makes itself overnight. It does not last out the day. When the sun shines the trees only give off vinegar."
Hawksworth gingerly sipped the newly fermented palm sap and was pleasantly surprised by its light flavor, totally unlike ale, or even Canary wine. After the third cup, the world around began to acquire a light sparkle of its own, and he realized the sap was more potent than it seemed.
"Not a bad way to start the day. What do you call it?"
"It comes from the tari palm, and some topiwallahs call it Toddy.'"
"Toddy, it's called? It's more than passable grog."
"Thank you, Sahib. Drink too much and you will spend the day with your head in a buzz." The servant giggled. "So now perhaps you should eat."
He consulted briefly with the eunuchs, who nodded and signaled toward the veranda. Moments later a tray appeared, piled high with honey-covered breads and glass dishes of sweet curds. Some hard cheese also had found its way onto the tray, and Hawksworth wondered if this was to placate his European taste. He sipped more of the Toddy and munched the bread and curds.
Then he saw the women.
There were five. They seemed clustered in a group as they entered the courtyard, but then he realized it was an aristocratic lady surrounded by four maids. They did not know he was there, for none covered her face. As he watched them they seemed preoccupied in an increasingly animated exchange. Then the aristocratic woman stepped determinedly ahead, turned, and curtly gave instructions whose seriousness was clear, even if her words were foreign. Her voice was not strident, but its authority was unmistakable.
The other women paused, then slowly, one by one, they seemed to acknowledge her orders and they bowed. The lady whirled and continued on her way, while the other four women turned toward the direction they had come. Then, as though the resolution of the argument had suddenly made them aware of their surroundings, they all seemed to see Hawksworth at once. All five women froze.
Hawksworth smiled and tried to remember the bow he had seen performed to him so often. But he could not remove his eyes from the first woman, who was more striking than any he had ever before seen. Her skin was fair, with a warm hint of olive, and her high cheekbones stood in stunning relief as they glanced away the golden light of dawn. Her nose was thin and sculptured, while her lips would have been full, had they not been drawn tight in response to some unspecified inner determination. Yet her eyes seemed untouched by what had just transpired. They were clear and receptive, even warm, and Hawksworth asked himself at that moment if this bespoke innocence, or guile.
In dress and adornment she scarcely differed from her maids. All had long black hair, brushed to gleaming and protected from the morning air with a transparent gossamer scarf edged in gold embroidery. At first glance there seemed little to distinguish among the tight strands of pearls each wore at the neck, or the jeweled bands on their wrists and upper arms. Each wore a tight silk halter for a blouse, and to Hawksworth's assessing eyes the maids all seemed to have abundant breasts swelling their halters to overflowing, some—perhaps all—with breasts more generous than the lady herself. Then he noted in amazement that the women actually wore a form of tapered silk trouser, a tight-legged pajama similar to that worn by aristocratic men.
Unlike the male style, however, each woman's body was enveloped by a long transparent skirt, suspended from a band that circled her torso just beneath her breasts. And whereas men all wore a long scarf tied about the waist of their cloaks and hanging down the front, the women all had a long pleated panel tucked directly into the front waistband of their trousers and reaching almost to the ground. He could not help noticing that it clung sensually to their thighs as they walked, while its gold-embroidered hem tinkled against the gold bracelets each woman wore at her ankles. Their shoes were red Turkish leather, with gold decorations sewn across the top and a pointed toe that curved upward.
The only difference between the lady and her maids seemed to be in the rich fabric of her lightly clinging trousers. Then, too, there was slightly more gold thread in her long transparent skirt, and among the pearls at her neck nestled an unmistakable blue sapphire as large as a walnut.
But her primary distinction was not merely the classic lines of her face or the perfect curve of her waist and thighs, but rather something in her bearing, in her assured but unmannered carriage. Her real beauty lay in her breeding.
All five women stared at Hawksworth in momentary surprise and shock. Then each maid automatically seized her transparent scarf and pulled it across her lower face. The woman also moved instinctively to do the same, but then she seemed to consciously stop herself and with an obvious attempt at restraint she walked on, barefaced, past the courtyard and into the garden beyond. Alone.
Hawksworth watched her form disappear among the clipped hedges and elaborate marble pavilions of the garden. He noticed a curious sensation in his chest as she passed from view, and he suddenly found himself wanting very much to follow her. When he finally turned and looked back, the other women had already vanished.
Only then did he realize that all the servants had been watching him. The one nearest nodded in the direction of the garden and smiled knowingly.
"Perhaps it will not surprise you, Sahib, to learn that she was once the favorite of the Moghul himself. And now she is in Surat. Amazing."
"But why's she here?" Hawksworth glanced back at the garden once more to assure himself
she was indeed lost to its recesses.
"She is Shirin, the first wife of Khan Sahib." He moved closer to Hawksworth, so that his lowered voice would not reach the eunuchs. "She was removed from the Moghul’s zenana and married to Khan Sahib last year by Queen Janahara, just before Her Majesty had him appointed the governor of Surat. Some believe she appointed him here to remove Shirin from Agra, because she feared her." The servant's voice became a whisper. "We all know she has refused His Excellency the legal rights of a husband."
The silence of the court was cut by the unmistakable voice of Mukarrab Khan, sounding in anger as he gave some command from within the palace. There followed a chorus of women's wails.
Hawksworth turned to the servant, but the man read his inquiring glance.
"He has ordered the women whipped for disobeying his order to accompany Shirin at all times, even when she walks in the garden."
Then the door opened again, and Mukarrab Khan strode into the morning sunshine.
"Captain Hawksworth, salaam. I trust Allah gave you rest."
"I slept so well I find difficulty remembering all we said last night." Hawksworth watched him carefully. Will he honor his threat to deliver us to the Viceroy, for a trial at Goa?
"It was an amusing evening. Hardly a time for weighty diplomatic exchange. And did you enjoy my little present?"
Hawksworth pondered his question for a moment, and the drugged dream of the night before suddenly became real.
"You mean the woman? She was very . . . unusual, very different from the women of England."
"Yes, I daresay. She was one of my final gifts from . . . Agra. I often have her entertain my guests. If you like, you may keep her while you stay with me. I already hear she fancies you. The serving women call her Kali, after a goddess from their infidel pantheon. I think that one's their deity of destruction."
"Why did they give her that name?"
"Perhaps she'll tell you herself sometime." Mukarrab Khan gestured for a servant to bring his cloak. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I regret I must abandon you for a time. Among my least pleasant duties is a monthly journey to Cambay, our northern port in this province. It always requires almost a week, but I have no choice. Their Shahbandar would rob the Moghul’s treasury itself if he were not watched. But I think you'll enjoy yourself in my absence."
"I would enjoy it more if I could be with my men."
"And forgo the endless intrigues my Kali undoubtedly plans for you?" He monitored Hawksworth's unsettled expression. "Or perhaps it's a boy you'd prefer. Very well, if you wish you may even have . . ."
"I'm more interested in the safety of our merchants and seamen. And our cargo. I haven't seen the men since yesterday, at the customs house."
"They're all quite well. I've lodged them with a port official who speaks Portuguese, which your Chief Merchant also seems to understand. I'm told, by the way, he's a thoroughly unpleasant specimen."
"When can I see them?"
"Why any time you choose. You have only to speak to one of the eunuchs. But why trouble yourself today? Spend it here and rest. Perhaps enjoy the grounds and the garden. Tomorrow is time enough to re-enter the wearisome halls of commerce."
Hawksworth decided that the time had come to raise the critical question. "And what about the Portugals? And their false charges?"
"I think that tiresome matter can be resolved with time. I've sent notice to the court in Agra, officially, that you wish to travel there. When the reply is received, matters can be settled. In the meantime, I must insist you stay here in the palace. It's a matter of your position. And frankly, your safety. The Portuguese do not always employ upright means to achieve their ends." He tightened his traveling cloak. "Don't worry yourself unduly. Just try to make the most of my humble hospitality. The palace grounds are at your disposal. Perhaps you'll find something in all this to engage your curiosity." Mukarrab Khan brushed away a fly from his cloak. "There's the garden. And if you're bored by that, then you might wish to examine the Persian observatory constructed by my predecessor. You're a seaman and, I presume, a navigator. Perhaps you can fathom how it all works. I've never been able to make anything out of it. Ask the servants to show you. Or just have some tari wine on the veranda and enjoy the view."
He bowed with official decorum and was gone, his entourage of guards in tow.
Hawksworth turned to see the servants waiting politely. The turbaned man, whose high forehead and noble visage were even more striking now in the direct sunshine, was dictating in a low voice to the others, discreetly translating Mukarrab Khan's orders into Hindi, the language that seemed common to all the servants.
"The palace and its grounds are at your disposal, Sahib." The servant with the large white turban stood waiting. "Our pleasure is to serve you."
"I'd like to be alone for a while. To think about . . . to enjoy the beauty of the garden."
"Of course. Sahib. Perhaps I could have the honor of being your guide."
"I think I'd prefer to see it alone."
The servant's dismay was transparent, but he merely bowed and immediately seemed to dissolve into the marble porticoes of the veranda, as did all the others.
Hawksworth watched in amazement. They really do follow orders. Now if I can start to figure out this place. I don't need guides. All I need are my eyes. And luck.
The garden spread out before him. Unlike the closely clipped geometry of the courtyard he had seen the night before, this was less formal and more natural, with a long waterway receding into the horizon. The pond was flanked by parallel arbors along each side, shading wide, paved walkways. He noticed there were no flowers, the main focus in an English garden, only gravel walks and the marble-tiled watercourse. The sense was one of sublime control.
Several dark-skinned gardeners in loincloths were wading knee-deep in the shallow reservoir, adjusting the flow from bubbling fountains that spewed from its surface at geometrically regular spacings, while others were intently pruning—in what seemed a superfluous, almost compulsive act—the already immaculate hedges.
As Hawksworth walked past, self-consciously trying to absorb a sense of place, the gardeners appraised him mutely with quick, flicking sweeps of their eyes. But none made any move to acknowledge his presence.
The sun burned through the almost limitless sky, whose blue was polished to a ceramic glaze, and the air was clean and perfumed with nectar. The garden lay about him like a mosaic of naturalism perfected. Through the conspicuous hand of man, nature had been coerced, or charmed, to exquisite refinement.
The gravel pathway ended abruptly as he reached the pond's far shore, terminated by a row of marble flagstones. Beyond lay geometrical arbors of fruit-laden trees— mangoes, apples, pears, lemons, and even oranges. Hawksworth tightened his new robe about his waist and entered one of the orchard's many pathways, marveling.
I've found the Garden of Eden.
The rows of trees spread out in perfect regularity, squared as carefully as the columns of the palace verandas and organized by species of fruit. As he explored the man-made forest, he began to find its regularity satisfying and curiously calming. Then in the distance, over the treetops, a high stone wall came into view, and from beyond could be heard the splashes of men laboring in the moat. He realized he had reached the farthest extent of the palace grounds.
As he neared the wall, the orchard gave way to an abandoned clearing in whose center stood a moss-covered marble stairway projecting upward into space, leading nowhere. The original polish on its steps was now buried in layers of dust and overgrowth.
Was there once a villa here? But where's the . . . ?
Then he saw the rest. Curving upward on either side of the stairway was a moss-covered band of marble over two feet wide and almost twenty feet in length, concave, etched, and numbered.
It's some sort of sundial. But it's enormous.
He turned and realized he was standing next to yet another stone instrument, a round plaque in red and white marble, like the dia
l of a water clock, on which Persian symbols for the zodiac had been inscribed. And beyond that was the remains of a circular building, perforated with dozens of doorways, with a tall pillar in the middle. Next to it was a shallow marble well, half a hemisphere sunk into the ground, with precise gradations etched all across the bottom.
Hawksworth walked in among the marble instruments, his astonishment growing. They were all etched to a precision he had never before seen in stone.
This observatory is incredible. The sundial is obvious, even if the purpose of the stairway over its center isn't. But what's the round vertical plaque? Or that round building there, and the curious marble well? Could those be some sort of Persian astrolabe, like navigators use to estimate latitude by fixing the elevation of the sun or stars?
What are they all for? Some to fix stars? Others to predict eclipses? But there has to be more. These are for observation. Which means there have to be charts. Or computations? Or something.
It's said the Persians once mastered a level of mathematics and astronomy far beyond anything known in Europe. Is this some forgotten outpost of that time? Just waiting to be rediscovered?
He turned and examined the instruments again, finding himself wondering for an instant if they could somehow be hoisted aboard the Discovery and returned to England.
And if the observatory's still here, perhaps the charts are here somewhere too.
His excitement mounted as he searched the rest of the clearing. Then he saw what he wanted.
It has to be there.
Abutting the stone wall was a small hut of rough-hewn stone, with slatted windows and a weathered wooden door that was wedged ajar, its base permanently encrusted in the dried mud of the rainy season. The wall behind was so weathered that the metal spikes along its top had actually rusted away.
This whole place must have been deserted for years. What a waste.
As he approached the weathered stone hut, he tried to dampen his own hopes.
How can there be anything left? Who knows how long it's been abandoned? And even if there are calculations—or maybe even books!—they're most likely written in Persian. Or Arabic.
He took hold of the rotting door, which left a layer of decaying wood on his hand, and wrenched it open wider, kicking a path for its base through the crusted mud. Then he slipped sideways through the opening.
A stifled, startled cry cut the dense air of the hut, and an oil lamp glowing in the black was smothered in a single movement. Then came a woman's voice.
"You're not allowed here. Servants are forbidden beyond the orchard." She had begun in Persian, then repeated herself in Hindi.
"Who are you?" Hawksworth, startled by the unknown languages, began in English and then switched to Turkish. "I thought . . ."
"The English feringhi." The voice suddenly found control, and its Turki was flawless. "You were in the courtyard this morning." She advanced slowly toward the shaft of light from the doorway. "What are you doing here? Khan Sahib could have you killed if the eunuchs discover you."
He watched as her face emerged from the shadows. Then his heart skipped.
It was Shirin.
"The govern . . . Khan Sahib told me about this observatory. He said I . . ."
"Stars do not shine in the day, nor the sun in this room. What are you doing in here?"
"I thought there might be charts, or a library." Hawksworth heard his own voice echo against the raw stone walls of the room. He studied her face in the half light, realizing with a shock that she was even more striking now than in the sunshine of the garden.
"Did he also tell you to plunder all you find in the palace grounds?"
"He said I might find the observatory curious, as a navigator. He was right. But there must be some charts. I thought this room might . . ."
"There are some old papers here. Perhaps he thought this place would keep you occupied. Or test you one more time."
"What do you mean?"
She answered with a hard laugh, then circled Hawksworth and examined him in the glancing morning light. Her dark hair was backlighted now from the sun streaming through the doorway, her gauze head scarf glistening like spun gold.
"Yes, you're a feringhi. Just like all the rest." Her eyes flashed. "How many more like you are there in Europe? Enough, I would guess, to amuse our debauched governor forever."
"I didn't double the Cape for his amusement. Or yours." What's the matter? Everybody talks in riddles. "Does this room have a library?"
"Yes, but the writings are in Persian. Which you don't understand."
"How do you know what I understand?"
She looked at him with open astonishment. "Do you suppose there's anyone in the palace who doesn't already know all about you?"
"And what do you know about me?"
Silence held the room for a moment. Then she spoke.
"I know you're a feringhi. Like the Portuguese. Here for gold. And . . . the rest." She turned and walked back into the darkness. There was a spark of light and the lamp glowed again. "As for this room, there's nothing here you would understand. And when you return to the palace, and to His Excellency's affion and his nautch girls, remember what happens to a man who is discovered with another's wife. I will forget I saw you here. You should forget also, if you wish to see the sun tomorrow."
Hawksworth found himself watching her spellbound, almost not hearing her words. He stood motionless for a moment, then walked directly toward her, trying not to feel self-conscious in his new Moghul clothes. "I want to talk with you. To find out what's going on. I'll begin with this place. It's an observatory, or was. What harm can there be in looking around this room?"
She stared at him without moving. "You certainly have a feringhi’s manner. If you won't leave, then I'll ask you some questions. What do you say is your reason for coming to India? It's rumored you're here for the English king."
"What else have you heard?"
"Other things as well." She moved closer and her perfume enveloped him. Her eyes were intense, almost overwhelming the jewel at her throat. "But I'd like to hear them from you. There's much dismay about you, about the battle, about the letter."
Hawksworth studied her wistfully. "You know about the letter?"
"Of course. Everyone knows." She sighed at his naivete. "The contents of your chest were examined very carefully last night . . . but no one dared touch the seal on the letter, for fear of the Moghul. Is it true the English king may send an armada to attack Goa?"
"And if it were?"
"It could make a great deal of difference. To many people here."
"Who?"
"People who matter."
"The only one who should matter is the Moghul."
She laughed again. "He's the very last one who matters. I see you comprehend very little." She paused and examined him closely. "But you're an interesting man. We all listened to you play the English sitar last night. And today the first place you chose to come was here. You're the first feringhi ever to seek out this place, which was once famous throughout India. Did you truly come here this morning just to learn?"
"I haven't learned very much so far. At least in this room." He looked about them, noticing for the first time a small table on which there was a book and fresh writings. "You've not told what you're doing here. Or why you can come here when the servants are forbidden."
"Servants once tried to steal some of the marble steps for a house. But the reason I come here is not really your concern, Captain Hawksworth. . . ." She caught his startled look and laughed. "Of course I know your name. I also know you should learn not to drink bhang with Kali. She's more than your equal."
Hawksworth stifled his embarrassment and tried to ignore the barb. "There surely must be charts here. What harm if I merely look around?"
Shirin stiffened. "Not now. Not today. You have to leave."
"But are there calculations, or charts?"
"More than likely. But I told you they're in Persian."
"Then
maybe you could translate."
"I could. But not today. I've told you, you have to leave. Really you must." She pushed the door open wider and stood waiting.
"I'll be back." He paused in the doorway and turned. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
"Possibly."
"Then I'll be back for sure."
She looked at him and shook her head resignedly. "You truly don't realize how dangerous it is for you to come here."
"Are you afraid?"
"I'm always afraid. You should be too." She studied him in the sunshine, examining his eyes, and for a moment her face softened slightly. "But if you do come, will you bring your English sitar? I'd like very much to hear it once more."
"And what will you do for me in return?"
She laughed. "I'll try to excavate some musty Persian books here that might tell you something about the observatory. But remember. No one must ever know. Now, please." She urged him out, then reached and pulled the door tightly closed.
Hawksworth suddenly realized the heat had grown intense, and now the sun cut a sharp line down the face of the red marble dial, telling that midmorning approached. He examined the dial quickly and then turned to look again at the stone hut.
With the door closed, the ramshackle hut again looked completely deserted.
What in Christ's name can she be doing? No matter, she's astonishing. And there's something in the way she handles herself. Little wonder she was the favorite concubine, or whatever they call it, of the Moghul. And it's easy to see why his queen married her off to Mukarrab Khan and sent them both here to get her out of the way. A clever way to banish . . .
Hawksworth froze.
That's the word the pilot Karim used! From the Quran. "As for women from whom you fear rebellion, banish them to . . . beds apart."
Could this be the woman he meant? But what rebellion? Whatever's going on, nobody's talking. All I see are armed guards. And fear. This palace is like a jewel-set dagger—exquisite, and deadly.
He stared again at the moss-covered marble instruments.
But I'll be back. If she'll be here, absolutely nothing could stop me.
The Moghul Page 10