The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Hawksworth waited anxiously by the rear entryway of the Diwan-i-Khas and watched the three Jesuits file silently through the tapestried archway beside him. Father Alvarez Sarmento, imperious in his freshly laundered black habit, moved directly to the silver railing that circled the throne. The old priest's eyes seemed to fairly glow in triumph. Behind him trailed Father Pinheiro and the pudgy father Francisco da Silva, their attempts at poise marred by shifting, anxious glances of disquiet. Hawksworth studied all three and puzzled even more what could be afoot.

  Over a week had passed since the death of Samad, and since that day he had no longer been invited to Arangbar's evenings in the Diwan-i-Khas. Even his requests for an audience had been ignored. Before the poet's death, it had been possible for him to believe that the absurdity of Samad and Shirin's arrest would eventually resolve itself, that the nightmare would fade into reality and bring their release. But the killing of Samad had blotted out that illusion. When he saw Arangbar, presiding high above the square, signal the Sufi's death, he had realized finally the nightmare was all too real. Since that time he had spent the sleepless nights alone, distraught, counting the passage of each hour as he awaited news Shirin was also dead. In his mind he had conceived a dozen stratagems to try to save her, a dozen arguments, threats, bargains for her release, but nothing could be done if he was denied even an audience with the Moghul.

  That they should have tasted so much, only to lose it all. He found himself aware, for the first time ever, how much he could want, could need, a woman like Shirin beside him. With her, life itself seemed renewed. She was like no other he had ever known: strong, beautiful, self-willed. He had found himself admiring the last most of all, even though he still found it startling. But the love he had known with her in his arms now only made the despair deeper. Nothing was left. Now there was only abiding sorrow, loss beyond healing. She had given him something he had never known, something he realized—for the first time ever—he no longer wanted to live without. He would have taken her place a hundred times over, but even that seemed impossible.

  Then, that morning, hope had appeared, almost a miracle. A sudden, urgent message had been delivered, instructing him to appear once more in the Diwan-i-Khas. It almost certainly meant Arangbar had received word of the English fleet. If Shirin were still alive, and there had been no news of her death, it must mean that the Moghul was uncertain about her guilt: he was not a man who normally waited to act. And if she was alive, all things again became possible . . .

  He had asked himself again and again over the past week why he had suddenly been forgotten by Arangbar. He finally concluded it was the distracting turmoil that had gripped Agra and the court since Samad's death.

  The Sufi's last words had been repeated throughout the city, and already there were rumors of impending calamity: the bazaars were alive with talk of a Persian Safavid invasion from the northwest, a rebellion among the Imperial guards, an impending holocaust that would burn all Agra to ash, a universal plague. The streets had an apocalyptic air, with omens foreseen in every temple.

  Another reason for Arangbar's preoccupation could be the rumors from the south. Word was sweeping Agra that Prince Jadar and his army had been savaged by the Deccani forces and were now retreating northward, with Malik Ambar in pursuit. If this story were true, then the Abyssinian's defeat of Jadar must have been overwhelming, since rebels did not normally pursue Moghul forces. But this story was still merely rumor. There had been no actual reports of any engagements in the south.

  Jadar's possible defeat, so the talk in Agra went, had gone very heavily with Arangbar, and accounted for his increas­ing dependence on opium and wine. Those who had seen him reported the Moghul was growing noticeably weaker. And as his strength waned, so too did his authority. Ever since the night of the wedding, Queen Janahara had been moving to assume more and more of the prerogatives of power. Arangbar already seemed to be becoming a figurehead. The only sanctuary she had not yet invaded was the Diwan-i-Khas.

  Those evening gatherings Arangbar still ruled like a god, and the unusual note he had sent to Hawksworth was worded almost more like an order than an invitation. It confirmed vividly the reports that Arangbar was growing more erratic by the day.

  Around Hawksworth sat the usual assembly of Arang­bar's closest advisers, men whose perpetually smiling faces he had come to know well over the past weeks. Prominent among them as always was Nadir Sharif, who now seemed to be avoiding Hawksworth's glance. Also in attendance was a special contingent of Rajput guards, in Imperial turbans and tunics. Hawksworth could never remember having seen these particular guards in the Diwan-i-Khas before.

  When the last official had arrived, the Rajput guards moved across the doorway and the kettledrum was sounded. Moments later the tapestry behind the throne was pushed aside by two eunuchs and Arangbar emerged into the light. He stumbled momentarily on the edge of a carpet, then recovered his balance and took his seat on the white marble throne. His dull eyes glistened against the lamplight as the men in the room dropped to teslim. For the first time he seemed more annoyed than amused when Hawksworth failed to bow to the carpet. He glared at him for a long moment and then spoke to Nadir Sharif, who stood waiting by his side. The prime minister turned to the room.

  "Ambassador Hawksworth, His Majesty commands you to come forward."

  It was abrupt language rarely heard in the Diwan-i-Khas, and the room immediately fell silent. Hawksworth rose and tightened his belt, feeling his apprehension rising. As he neared the throne, he found himself seeing not Arangbar's expressionless gaze, but the face of Shirin as she waited for help.

  "Inglish, stand there." He pointed to the side of the throne opposite the Jesuits. "Tell me, any fresh news of your king's fleet?"

  Hawksworth felt his heart explode, realizing there was no arrival—and no possibility of using King James's presents to bargain for Shirin. "I expect it any day, Your Majesty. Possibly the winds have been against them."

  "The winds." Arangbar turned to Father Sarmento, his voice sarcastic. "Do you think the winds have been against them, Padre?"

  "Undoubtedly, Majesty." Sarmento could not suppress a malicious smile. "The winds of truth. They have been arrested in a gale of deception."

  "I object, Your Majesty, to this Papist's innuendos." Hawksworth felt himself suddenly bristle. "An Englishman does not accept insults from a Portugal."

  "You will listen quietly to what you are about to hear, Inglish, or you will be removed by my guards." Arangbar again turned to Father Sarmento. "Padre, repeat to the Inglish conspirator what you told me this afternoon."

  "May it please Your Majesty, not only is the English a heretic before God and the Holy Church, he is also a liar." Sarmento paused with the dramatic timing of a practiced orator. "There is no English fleet."

  Hawksworth stared at the Jesuit in speechless dismay. His entire being seemed to crash down about him as Sarmento continued.

  "Because of the foresight of His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, Viceroy of Goa, we have now uncovered the truth, Your Majesty. After his patrols encountered no English merchantmen, either north or south, he began to grow suspicious. He ordered his personal guards to find and detain the man who claimed to have intercepted Jadar's cipher reporting the fleet. The traitor was found, not surprisingly, in a Goan brothel, where he had been for many days, spending more money than such a man could normally earn in a lifetime. He was brought to the palace and interrogated on the strappado." Sarmento turned trium­phantly to Hawksworth. "Where he readily admitted being paid to bring a false report."

  "And who do you believe paid him?"

  "On that His Excellency is still uncertain, Your Majesty. He was paid by agents in the south."

  "But who does the Viceroy believe paid the money?"

  "The coins were assayed and traced to the mint at Surat, Your Majesty. They were part of a special minting that took place just before the English, Hawksworth, left the city. The assay also revealed they were a d
ebased alloy, slightly lower in silver content than is normal, although not enough to be readily detectable. Similar coins have begun to be used throughout the Deccan. Reportedly they were given out recently by Prince Jadar as back pay to the troops of certain mansabdars.'"

  "Who were the coins minted for?"

  "The Shahbandar at Surat, Mirza Nuruddin, claims to have misplaced the records for this particular minting. However, he maintains the lower silver content was probably due to a minter's oversight. The former governor of Surat, Mukarrab Khan, is returning to the city to investigate. The minting run appears to have been approxi­mately fifty lakhs of rupees. But the actual silver content was only forty-nine lakhs of rupees." He paused for breath. "The Shahbandar says he has no idea what could have happened to the other lakh's worth of silver bullion authorized to be used in the minting."

  "That's not so difficult to explain, knowing Mirza Nuruddin." Arangbar seemed to be talking to himself. Then he glanced again at Sarmento. "Of course, the discrepancy would probably never have been detected if the coins given to the traitor had not been melted down and assayed. The question remains who ordered him paid?" Arangbar turned to Hawksworth, who stood with his mind churning, refusing to accept the consequences of what he was hearing. It meant the end of everything. "Perhaps the Inglish ambassador can help explain it."

  "I have no idea why there was a false report, Majesty. I believed it too."

  "Did you, Inglish?" Arangbar glared down drunkenly from his throne. "Or did you plot this with Prince Jadar when you met with him in Burhanpur? Did you and he conspire together to deceive me, exchanging bribes in the pocket of the prince with some of this debased silver coin for his help in a ruse you thought would produce a firman when brought to my ears?"

  "I gave nothing to the prince, Majesty. And I asked nothing from him. That is the truth."

  "The truth from you is not always easy to obtain, Inglish. Your deceptions have distressed me very much. And, curiously enough, Her Majesty even more. There is no fleet, Inglish. Instead there are lies, by you and, I'm beginning to suspect now, by my own son. I no longer have any idea what he is doing in the south. But I fear his arrogance has brought ruin to his army. I am recalling him to Agra, immediately, for an inquiry, and I am hereby ordering you to leave India."

  Hawksworth noticed Nadir Sharif shoot a troubled glance toward the Jesuits.

  "May it please Your Majesty, neither I nor my king have had anything to do with the reports of the fleet, whether true or false. There will be other voyages and soon. My king has promised it, and he is a sovereign who honors his word."

  "Your Inglish king posts a conspirator and a traitor to my court. He will never have a firman from my hand, no matter how many voyages he may send."

  "If there is indeed no fleet now, then I agree Your Majesty has been deceived. But I have been also. We have both been used by those around us, for purposes unknown. But my king would not knowingly play false with Your Majesty. Nor would I. Those who would deceive you, whoever they may be, sit much closer to Your Majesty's throne."

  "It is not your place, Inglish, to tell me mine is a court of liars. Your forgeries in India are ended. You will be gone from Agra within the week, or I will not answer for your life. After that you no longer may use the title of ambassador. You will be treated as the conspirator you are. And as of this moment you are stripped of your title of khan." He motioned to the Rajput guards. "Take him away."

  Hawksworth turned to see Father Sarmento beaming.

  "Alas it seems we soon must part, Ambassador. May God in His mercy grant you a pleasant and speedy journey. Should you wish to travel through Goa, I can give you a letter to His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, requesting safe passage on a westbound galleon."

  "Damn your Viceroy." As Hawksworth turned back toward Arangbar, he felt rough hands close about his arms. Before he could speak, he was being guided through the rear doorway and into the long gallery leading to the public square.

  "Majesty." Nadir Sharif watched the curtains close behind Hawksworth, then rose and moved closer to the throne. "May it please you, the Englishman unfortunately remains my guest. At least for a few more days. As his host I feel a trifling obligation to see he finds his way home safely. I ask leave to excuse myself for a few moments to ensure he finds a palanquin."

  "As you wish." Arangbar was watching a eunuch bring in a box of opium.

  When Nadir Sharif moved toward the doorway, Father Pinheiro rose unobtrusively and slipped out behind him. As the Jesuit moved into the hallway, he appeared not to hurry, but his brisk walk brought him alongside the prime minister midway down the corridor.

  "Have you told Her Majesty, as we agreed?"

  "Told her what?" Nadir Sharif did not break his pace or remove his eyes from Hawksworth, still being led by the guards several yards ahead.

  "About the ship that would be seized."

  Nadir Sharif stopped as though hit by an arrow. "But surely you'll not take the vessel now! Didn't you see that the Englishman has been ordered out of Agra? He's finished. There'll certainly be no trading firman for him now, or ever."

  "But the warships were dispatched from Surat day before yesterday, just before the pigeons arrived from Goa with the word of the hoax. His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes', message revoking their order to sail arrived a day too late. They were already at sea. The Indian ship may have already been seized."

  Nadir Sharif inspected him with astonishment. "Your Viceroy must be mad. To take the vessel now? There's no purpose in it. His Majesty will be most annoyed."

  "But you were the one who suggested it!" The Jesuit's voice rose, quivering in dismay. "You said that bold measures were for bold men. Those were your words. His Excellency agreed it would be a decisive stroke of firmness."

  "And what does Father Sarmento think of this folly?"

  "Father Sarmento does not yet know. I thought it best not to inform him." Pinheiro's eyes were despairing. "What did Her Majesty, Queen Janahara, say about the plan?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "We agreed you would tell her."

  "I've not forgotten our agreement. I've been watching carefully for the right moment."

  "She does not even know!" Pinheiro seized his arm and stared at him incredulously. "But I told His Excellency you would--“

  "I planned to tell her any day. The time was approaching. But now, given what has happened . . ." Then he smiled and touched the Jesuit's arm lightly. "But I think she can still bring reason to His Majesty. It can all be readily explained as a misunderstanding."

  "But you must tell her immediately." Pinheiro's shock was growing. "If she hears of it before you've explained, she'll think –-“

  "Of course. But there's no reason yet for concern." Nadir Sharif smiled again. "I assure you it all can be handled very routinely. But please tell His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, not to do anything else this ill-advised for at least a week. I can only excuse so much at one time."

  As Nadir Sharif turned to continue down the corridor, Pinheiro reached out and seized his arm again. "You must also do one other thing. You must make sure the Englishman is removed from Agra immediately. We both know His Majesty may well forget by tomorrow that he has ordered him gone."

  "This time I doubt very much His Majesty will forget. It will only be a matter of days, in any case." Nadir Sharif turned and smiled. "And remember what I told you, that as far as His Majesty is concerned, I know nothing about your Viceroy's impetuous act. But I do advise you to inform Father Sarmento, before he hears it in open durbar."

  "He'll be furious. He'll probably order me back to Goa."

  "I doubt it. I'm sure he knows your value here." Nadir Sharif turned without another word and hurried on down the corridor.

  Ahead of him Hawksworth was being led by the guards through the marble archways. As they reached the end, facing the doorway leading to the courtyard stairs, he turned one last time and stared back, seeing Nadir Sharif for the first time.

  "What do you want no
w? My money or my life? Or both?"

  "I merely came to see you safely home, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif waved the guards back toward the Diwan-i-Khas, and they bowed with relief as they turned to retreat. "And to offer my condolences."

  "And no doubt to cozen me as well. I intend to find out who played me false. Even if it's Jadar. Somebody has hell to pay."

  "That would be most unwise, Ambassador. I'm afraid we were all a bit too credulous. I readily confess even I had begun to believe your story."

  "It wasn't 'my story'! I knew nothing about . . ."

  "But you never denied it, Ambassador. Surely you knew the truth all along. The truth is always wisest. That's my cardinal rule in life."

  "But it could have been true. It was entirely possible. Why didn't you explain that to Arangbar? You're still supposed to be my agent."

  "That would be rather difficult for His Majesty to believe, given what really happened. But I do suppose it's possible." Nadir Sharif patted Hawksworth's shoulder. "I'll see if there's anything I can do. But in the meantime, I suggest you begin preparations to leave. His Majesty was unusually disturbed tonight."

  "He's disturbed over a lot of things, most of which have little to do with me."

  "If you mean the matter of the prince, I assure you it's alarming to us all. No one is certain what has happened in the south. In fact, you were one of the last men to see Prince Jadar. He seems almost to have disappeared. All sorts of rumors are working their way to the court. Where it will end no one can any longer even guess." Nadir Sharif followed Hawksworth out into the open square of the Diwan-i-Am. "Incidentally, Ambassador, did you yourself know anything about the fifty lakhs of silver coin spoken of tonight?"

  Hawksworth examined him a moment. "Maybe the Shahbandar stole it all."

  "That's hardly an answer, Ambassador. It wasn't, by any chance, traveling with you from Surat to Burhanpur? You know, His Majesty has demanded a full investigation. I think he may just summon Mirza Nuruddin to Agra for an explanation."

  "Then let him ask Mirza Nuruddin what happened. I'm sure he'll get the truth." Hawksworth turned toward the large gate at the far end of the square.

  "Very well, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "By the way, I understand Mirza Nuruddin has suggested you may have smuggled it out of Surat yourself, leaving a worthless letter of credit, in order to swindle your merchants."

  "The bastard."

  "The truth will surely come out, Ambassador, as you say. So I wish you good night and a restful sleep." Nadir Sharif turned and in moments had melted into the darkness.

  Hawksworth slowly worked his way down the cobble­stone roadway, past the guards at the Amar Singh Gate, and into the Agra night. He turned left and headed toward the banks of the Jamuna, hoping the smells and sounds of water would soothe his mind. When he reached the riverbank, he found himself looking back at the massive walls of the Red Fort, wondering again where Shirin was being kept, wanting to be with her. To hold her one last time. But the high stone walls stood dark and mute as his own despair.

  "You are home, Sahib." The servants were waiting, beaming and immaculate in fresh muslin dhotis, as Hawksworth pushed open the doors of his compound. It was nearing midnight. "Your house is honored tonight with a special evening."

  "What are you planning? My farewell?"

  The servants examined him uncomprehending as he pushed past the portiere of the doorway.

  The room was heavy with sandalwood incense. In the lamplight he recognized Kamala's musicians: the gray-haired flautist in a long lungi wrap and bare to the waist, the drummer smiling widely in a plain white shirt and brown dhoti. Although he had not seen them for days, they paused only briefly to acknowledge him. The drummer was absorbed in tuning his instrument, using a small hammer to tap blocks of wood wedged beneath the leather thongs securing the drumhead. As he adjusted the tension on the thongs, he periodically tested the drum's pitch against a note from the flute.

  Kamala was nowhere to be seen. Hawksworth stared about the room quizzically, then turned to the musicians. They responded with a puzzled shrug and motioned toward a rear door.

  "She summoned them here tonight, Sahib. She did not tell them why. No one has seen her all day. It is very worrying." The servant shuffled uneasily. "Has the Sahib heard the stories in the bazaar?"

  "What stories?"

  From behind the curtains came the sudden tinkling of tiny bells. The musicians smiled in recognition.

  As the servants edged toward the curtained doorway to look, Hawksworth extracted a half-empty bottle of brandy from his chest and threw himself down against a bolster.

  What's this all about? Why can't I be alone for once? Tonight of all nights she does this.

  He puzzled a moment over Kamala, her erratic and powerful moods, then his thoughts returned gloomily to the Diwan-i-Khas and to Shirin. He could not give up hope. Never. He never gave up hope.

  There was another tinkling of bells and the curtain at the doorway was swept aside. Standing there, jewels afire in the lamplight, was Kamala.

  He noticed the two musicians stare at her for an instant, then exchange quick, disturbed glances.

  She was, it seemed, more striking than he had ever seen her. Her eyes were seductively lined with kohl and her lips were an inviting red, matching the large dot on her forehead. In one side of her nose she wore a small ring studded with diamonds. Her hair was swept back and secured with rows of rubies and her throat and arms were circled with bands of gold imbedded with small green emeralds. She wore a silken wrap folded in pleats about each leg in a way that enhanced the full curve of her hips. Her waist was circled by a belt of beaten gold, and her palms and the soles of her feet had been reddened with henna. As she came toward him, the bands of tiny bells at her ankles punctuated the sensuous sway of her breasts beneath her silk halter.

  "You've returned early. I'm glad." As she moved into the light, he thought he caught a glimpse of some profound melancholy in her eyes. He also noted her voice was strangely frail.

  "Is there supposed to be a ceremony tonight I didn't know about?" As Hawksworth studied her, he took another long swallow of brandy, its heat burning away at his anguish.

  "This is a special evening. I have decided to dance Bharata Natyam one last time, for Lord Shiva."

  "What do you mean, one last time?"

  She seemed to stare past him for a moment, then she slowly turned. "I'm truly glad you've come. To be here tonight. I would have waited for you, but there was no time. And I wondered if you would really understand. Perhaps I was wrong. Bharata Natyam is never only for the dancer. So it is good you are here. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps you can understand something of what I feel tonight."

  "I haven't understood much that's happened tonight so far." Hawksworth settled his brandy bottle awkwardly onto the carpet and forced himself to bring her into focus.

  "You do not seem yourself, my feringhi Sahib." She studied him for a moment. "Did you hear sad news of your Persian woman?"

  "Nothing. But I'm afraid I've just lost my best chance to save her."

  "I don't understand."

  "It's not your trouble." He examined her wistfully. "It seems I'll be leaving Agra sooner than I thought. So dance if you want, and then I'll wish you well."

  "Your trouble is always my trouble." She frowned as she studied him. "But you are leaving? So soon?" She seemed not to wait for an answer as she went on. "Never mind, I've never understood the affairs of ambassadors and kings. But our parting must not be sad. Let my dance to Shiva be my farewell to you."

  She turned and signaled to the flautist, who began a low-pitched, poignant melody. "Have you ever seen the Bharata Natyam?"

  "Never." Hawksworth sipped more brandy from the bottle and found himself wishing he could send them all away and play a suite on his lute, the one he had played for Shirin that day at the observatory.

  "Then it may be difficult for you to comprehend at first. With my body and my song I will tell Lord Shiva of my lon
ging for him. Do you think you can understand it?"

  "I'll try." Hawksworth looked up at her and again sensed some great sadness in her eyes.

  She examined him silently for a moment. "But I want you to understand. Not the words I sing, they're in ancient Sanskrit, but if you watch my hands, they will also speak. I will sing to Lord Shiva, but I give life to his song with my eyes, my hands, my body. I will re-create the poem with my dance. My eyes will speak the desire of my heart. The language of my hands will tell my longing for Lord Shiva. My feet will show the rhythms by which he brings order to the world. If you will try to feel what I feel, perhaps Lord Shiva will touch you and lighten your burden."

  "And this is called Bharata Natyam? What does that mean?" Hawksworth slipped off his mud-smeared boots and wearily tossed them next to the carpet.

  "The ancient temple dance of India is Bharata Natyam: bhava means mood, raga means song, tala means rhythm. All these are brought together in the dance. Natyam means the merging of dance and story. The true Bharata Natyam has seven movements: some are called pure dance and these are only rhythms, but some also tell a story. If I were to dance them all, as I would in the temple, I would have to dance all night." She tried wanly to smile. "But not now. Tonight I am not so strong. Tonight I will dance only the Varnam, the most important movement. In it I will tell the story of how the goddess Parvati, Shiva's beloved consort, longs for her lord. If I dance well I will become Parvati, and through the story of her love for Shiva, I will tell my own."

  "So it's really just a love song?"

  "It is Parvati's song of longing for her lord. The words are very simple.

  "Great with love for you this night.

  Am I, oh Lord.

  Do not avert yourself from me.

  Do not tease me, do not scorn me,

  Oh great, oh beautiful God

  Of the Brihadishwari temple.

  Great God who gives release

  From the sorrows of the world . . ."

  Kamala paused to tighten the straps securing the bells around her ankles. "The song goes on to say that she cannot bear even to hear the voice of the nightingale now that she is separated from her Lord Shiva. She cannot endure the dark night now that he has taken himself from her."

  "It's a very touching love song." Hawksworth found himself thinking again of Shirin, and of the dark nights they had both endured.

  "It is really much more. You see, Lord Shiva is her beloved, but he is also her god. So her song also praises the beauty of the great Shiva in all his many aspects: as her own consort, as one who has the Third Eye of Knowledge, as the great God of the Dance, Nataraj. Through my dance I will show all the many aspects of Shiva—as creator, as destroyer, as lord of the cosmic rhythms of life."

  Hawksworth watched in groggy fascination as she rose and, clasping her hands above her head, bowed toward a small bronze statue of the Dancing Shiva she had placed on a corner table. Then, as the drummer took up a steady cadence and the flute began a searching, high-pitched lament, she struck a statuesque pose of her own, feet crossed, arms above her head. Gradually her eyes began to dart seductively from side to side, growing in power until it seemed her entire body might explode. Abruptly she assumed a second pose, reminiscent of the statue. As the drummer's rhythms slowly increased, she began to follow them with her body, next with her feet, slapping heel, then ball, fiercely against the carpet. The drummer began to call out his bols, the strokes he was sounding on the drum, and as he did she matched his rhythms with the rows of tiny bells around her ankles.

  Hawksworth found himself being drawn into her dance. Her rhythms were not flamboyant like those of the Kathak style, but rather seemed to duplicate some deep natural cadence, as she returned again and again to the pose of the Dancing Shiva. It was pure dance, and he slowly began to feel the power of her controlled sensuality.

  Without warning she began a brief song to Shiva in a high- pitched, repetitive refrain. As she sang, her hands formed the signs for woman, for beauty, for desire, for dozens of other words and ideas Hawksworth could not decipher. Yet her expressive eyes exquisitely translated many of the hand signs, while her body left no mistaking the intensity of their emotion.

  When the song and its mime reached some climactic plateau, she suddenly resumed the pure dance, with the drummer once more reciting the bols as he sounded them. Again she matched his rhythms perfectly.

  After a time she began another verse of the song. By her mime Hawksworth concluded she was describing some aspect of Lord Shiva. When the song concluded, the drummer called out more bols and again she danced only his rhythms. Then she began yet another verse of the song, followed by still more rhythmic dance. The aspects of Shiva that she created all seemed different. Some wise, some fierce, some clearly of a beauty surpassing words.

  As Hawksworth watched, he began to sense some alien power growing around him, enveloping him and his despair, just as she had said. Kamala seemed to be gradually merging with an energy far beyond herself, almost as though she had invoked some primal rhythm of life into existence. And as he watched the growing intensity of her dance he began to experience a deep, almost primitive sense of fear, a stark knowledge of life and death beyond words.

  He found himself fighting to resist the force of some malevolent evil settling about the room, beginning to possess it and all it contained. He felt its power begin to draw out his own life, hungry and insistent, terrifying. And still she danced on, now only rhythms, her body dipping and whirling, her arms everywhere at once, her smile frozen in an ecstatic trance.

  Forcing himself at last to turn away, he looked toward the musicians. They seemed entranced by her as well, captured by the delirium of her dance. He finally caught the eye of the drummer and weakly signaled him to stop. But the man stared as though not comprehending, spellbound. Her dance had now grown to a frenzy, surpassing human limits.

  Summoning his last strength, he tried to pull himself up off the bolster, but he discovered his legs were no longer his own. The room had become a whirling pattern of color and sound, beyond all control.

  Uncertainly he turned and began to feel about the carpet for his boots. His grip closed about a sheath of soft leather and he probed inside. There, strapped and still loaded, was his remaining pocket pistol. Shakily he took it in his hand, checked the prime, and began trying to aim at the long drum resting between the musicians. Now the drum seemed to drift back and forth in his vision, while the players smiled at him with glazed eyes.

  He heard a hiss and felt his hand fly upward, as though unconnected to his body. Then the world around erupted in smoke and flying splinters of wood.

  The shot had been timed perfectly with the end of a rhythm cycle, as the drum exploded into fragments on the sum.

  The smoky room was suddenly gripped in silence. The musicians stared wildly for a moment, then threw themselves face down on the carpet, pleading in unknown words needing no translation. Hawksworth looked in confusion at the smoking pistol in his hand, not recognizing it. Then he threw it onto the carpet and turned toward Kamala.

  She was gazing at him with open, vacant eyes, as though awakened suddenly from a powerful dream. Her breath was coming in short bursts, and her skin seemed afire. She stood motionless for a moment, then tried to move toward him, holding out her arms. After two hesitant steps, she crumpled to the carpet.

  When he bolted upward to reach for her, the servants were there, holding him back.

  "You must not touch her, Sahib."

  "But she's . . ."

  "No, Sahib." They gripped his arms tighter. "Can't you see? She has the sickness."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "It began late today, in the bazaar. Perhaps they do not know of it yet in the fort. At first no one realized what it was. But tonight, while she was dancing, one of the slaves from Sharif Sahib's kitchen came to tell us. Two of the eunuchs and five of his servants have become very sick." He paused to look at Kamala. "I think she must have known. That is why she
wanted to dance tonight."

  "Knew what? What did she know?"

  "The plague, Sahib. The slave who came said that the plague has struck all over Agra. It has never happened in India before." The servant paused. "It is the will of Allah. The prophet Samad foretold it. Now it has come."

  Hawksworth turned again to Kamala. She was still watching him with empty, expressionless eyes, as though her life had just poured out of her. He looked down at her for a moment, then reached for a pillow and carefully slipped it beneath her head. Her lips moved as she tried to form words, but at first no sound came. Then, as though again finding some strength beyond herself, her voice came in a whisper.

  "Did you see?"

  "What . . . ?"

  "Did you see him? The Great God Shiva. He came tonight. And danced beside me. Did you see his beauty?" She paused to breathe, then her voice rose again, full and warm. "He was as I knew he would be. Beautiful beyond telling. He danced in a ring of fire, with his hair streaming out in burning strands. He came as Shiva the Destroyer. But his dance was so beautiful. So very, very beautiful."