Warriors of the Steppes

by Harold Lamb

  “Nagir Jan, I will speak the truth. Will you answer me so?”

  “Say on,” assented the Brahman.

  The young lord of Thaneswar raised his voice until it reached the far corners of the hall.

  “Why do you hold me in despite, Nagir Jan? You have said that I am without faith. Yet do I say that my faith is as great as yours. Speak!”

  A murmur went through the watchers. The youths standing behind Matap Rao glanced at each other, surprised by the bold course the Rawul had taken.

  “Does a servant of Jagannath speak lies?” Nagir Jan smiled. “Is the wisdom of the temple a house of straw, to break before the first wind? Nay.”

  He paused, meditating. He spoke clearly, forcibly in the manner of one who knew how to sway the hearts of his hearers.

  “Is not Jagannath Lord of the World, Matap Rao? In him is mighty Vishnu thrice incarnate; in him are the virtues of Siva, protector of the soul; and the virtues of Balabhadra and Subhadra. Since the birth of Ram, Jagannath has been. The power of Kali, All-Destroyer, is the lightning in his hand. Is not this the truth?”

  Nagir Jan bowed his head. Matap Rao made no sign.

  “Surely you do not question the holiness of Jagannath, protector of the poor, guardian of the pilgrim and master of our souls?” continued the priest. “Nay, who am I but a lowly sweeper of the floor before the mighty god?”

  He stretched out a thin hand.

  “Jagannath casts upon you the light of his mercy, Rawul. He ordains that your faithlessness be forgiven. Thus does Jagannath weld in one the twin rulers of Kukushetra.

  “If you seek forgiveness, Kukushetra will prosper and the hearts of its men be uplifted. To this end has Jagannath claimed the beauty of Retha. Your wife will be the bond that will bind your soul to its forgotten faith.”

  He smiled and lowered his hand. Dignified and calm, he seemed as he said, the friend of the Rawul.

  “Is not this the truth, Matap Rao? Aye, it is so.”

  The priest ceased speaking and waited for the other to reply.

  In his speech Nagir Jan had avoided the issue of Matap Rao's faith. He had spoken only of the claim of Jagannath. And a swift glance at his hearers showed him that his words had gone home. Many heads nodded approvingly.

  The Rawul would not dare, so thought Nagir Jan, to attack the invisible might of Jagannath. By invoking the divinity of the god, Nagir Jan had made Matap Rao powerless to debate. And personal debate, he guessed, was the hope of Matap Rao.

  Something of triumph crept into his cold face. Matap Rao was thoughtful, his eyes troubled. The chieftain was an ardent Hindu. How could he renounce his faith?

  Abruptly his head lifted and he met the eyes of the priest. “What you have said of Jagannath, incarnation of Vishnu, is verily the truth, Nagir Jan,” responded the Rawul. “Yet it is not all the truth. You have not said that the priests of Jagannath are false. They are false servants of Vishnu. They are not true followers of the One who is master of the gods.”

  He spoke brokenly, as a man torn by mingled feeling.

  “Aye. Wherefore do the priests of Kukushetra perform the rites in costly robes? Or anoint themselves with oil? With perfume, with camphor and sandal? Instead of the sacred Vedas, they chant the prem sagar—the ocean of love. The pictures and images of the temple are those of lust.”

  His voice was firmer now, with the ring of conviction.

  “Aye, you are faithless servants. The rich garments that are offered by pilgrims to the gods, you drape once upon the sacred images. Then you wear them on your unclean bodies.

  “What becomes of the stores of food yielded by peasants for the meals of Jagannath? Four times a day do you present food to the wooden face of the god; afterward you feast well upon it.” Nagir Jan showed no change of expression, but he drew back as if from contamination.

  “You have forgotten the wise teachings of Chaitanya, who declared that a priest is like to a warrior,” continued the Rawul. “The gosain preached that sanctity is gained by inward warfare, by self-denial and privation.

  “You of Kukushetra follow the doctrine of Vallabha Swami. He it was who said that gratified desire uplifts the soul. And so do you live. What are the handmaidens of Jagannath but the prostitutes of the temple and its people?”

  An uneasy stir among the listeners greeted this. Many heads were shaken.

  “It is the truth I speak,” cried the Rawul, turning to them. “Nagir Jan claims to be the friend of the poverty-afflicted. Is it so? He seeks devotees among the merchants and masters of wealth.

  “He takes the fields of the peasants by forfeiture, contrary to law. He has taken much of my land. He seeks all of Thaneswar.” The young chieftain spread out his arms.

  “My spirit has followed the way of Chaitanya. I believe that bloodshed is pollution. My household divinity is the image of the sun, which was the emblem of my oldest forebears, whose fields were made fertile by its light. Is it not truth that a man may uplift his spirit even to the footstool of the One among the gods by bahkti—faith?”

  While the watchers gazed, some frowning, some admiring, Abdul Dost touched the arm of Khlit and nodded approvingly.

  “An infidel,” he whispered, “but—by the ninety-nine holy names—a man of faith.”

  Nagir Jan drew his robe closer about him, and spoke pityingly. “Blind!” he accused. “Does not the god dwell in the temple?” “Then,” responded Matap Rao, “whose dwelling is the world?” He pointed at the priest. “What avails it to wash your mouth, to mutter prayers on the pilgrimage if there is no faith in your

  heart, Nagir Jan? For my faith, you seek to destroy me, to gain the lands of Thaneswar. And so you have asked Retha as the bride of Jagannath.”

  The shaven head of the priest drew back with the swift motion of a snake about to strike. But Matap Rao spoke before him.

  “Well you know, Nagir Jan, that I will not yield Retha. If it means my death, Retha will not go to the temple.”

  “Thus you defy the choice of Jagannath?”

  “Aye,” said Matap Rao, and his voice shook. “For I know what few know. Among the ruins will the bride of Jagannath remain tomorrow night—where you and those who believe with you have said the god will appear as a man and foretell the omens, in the mystery of Janam. But he who will come to the woman is no god but a man, chosen by lot among the priests—perhaps you, Nagir Jan.”

  His tense face flushed darkly. He lowered his voice, but in the silence it could be heard clearly.

  “The rite of Janam will be performed. But a man violates the body of the bride. It is a priest. And he prophesies the omens. That is why, O Nagir Jan, I have called the priests false.

  “Never will the Lotus Face become the bride of Jagannath,” he added quietly.

  “Impious! Idolator!”

  The head of Nagir Jan shot forward with each word.

  “It is a lie, spoken in madness. But the madness will not save you.” His eyes shone cruelly, and his teeth drew back from the lips.

  “You have blasphemed Jagannath, O Rawul. You have denied to Jagannath his bride.” He turned swiftly. “Thaneswar is accursed. Who among you will linger here? Who will come with me to serve Jagannath? The god will claim his bride. Woe to those who aid him not—”

  He passed swiftly from the hall and a full half of the peasants as well as many of the house-servants slipped after him. The soldiers around the Rawul stood where they were.

  Rawul Matap Rao gazed after the fugitives with a wry smile. Old Perwan Singh laid down his vina and girded a sword-belt about his bony frame. Serwul Jain drew his scimitar and flung the scabbard away.

  “The battle-storm is at the gate of Thaneswar,” he cried in his high voice. “Ho—who will shed his blood for the Lotus Face? You have heard the words of your lord.”

  A hearty shout from the companion nobles answered him, echoed by a gruffer acclaim from the soldiery, led by Sawal Das. Matap Rao's eyes lighted but his smile was sad.

  “Aye, blood will be shed,”
he murmured. “It is pollution—yet we who die will not bear the stain of the sin.”

  He laid an arm across the bent shoulder of the minstrel.

  “Even thus you foretold, old singer of epics. Will you sing also of the fate of Thaneswar?”

  Abdul Dost spoke quickly to Khlit of what had passed. His face was alight with the excitement of conflict. But the shaggy face of Khlit showed no answering gleam.

  “There will be good sword-blows, O wayfarer,” cried the Muslim.

  “Come, here is a goodly company. We will scatter the rout of temple-scum! Eh!—what say you?”

  Khlit remained passive, wearing every indication of strong disgust.

  “Why did not yonder stripling chieftain prepare the castle for siege?” he growled. “Dog of the devil—he did naught but speak words.”

  He remained seated where he was while Abdul Dost ran to join the forces mustering under Serwul Jain at the castle gate. He shook his head moodily.

  But as the Rawul, armed and clad in mail, passed by, Khlit reached up and plucked his sleeve.

  “Where, O chieftain,” he asked bluntly, “is Asil Rumi, defender of Thaneswar? He is yet armored—aye—the elephants are your true citadel—”

  Not understanding Mogholi, and impatient of the strange warrior's delay, the Rawul shook him off and passed on. Khlit looked after him aggrievedly.

  Then he shook his wide shoulders, yawned, girded his belt tighter and departed on a quest for food among the remnants of the banquet.

  It was Khlit's custom, whenever possible, to eat before embarking on any dangerous enterprise.

  V

  And they paused to harken to a voice which said, “Hasten."

  It was the voice of the assembler of men, of him who spies out a road for many, who goes alone to the mighty waters. It was Yama, the Lord of Death, and he said:

  “Hasten to thy home, and to thy fathers."

  Nagir Jan was not seen again at Thaneswar that night. But his followers heard his tidings and a multitude gathered on the road. Those who accompanied the Brahman from the hall could give only an incoherent account of the words Matap Rao had spoken. The crowd, however, had been aroused by the priests in the temple.

  It was enough for them that the Rawul had blasphemed against the name of Jagannath. They were stirred by religious zeal, at the festival of the god.

  Moreover, as in all mobs, the lawless element coveted the chance to despoil the castle. Among the worshipers were many, well armed, who assembled merely for the prospect of plunder. They joined forces with the more numerous party.

  The ranks of the pilgrims and worshipers who had been sent down from the temple by the Brahmans was swelled by an influx of villagers and peasants from the fields—ignorant men who followed blindly those of higher caste.

  The higher priests absented themselves, but several of the lower orders such as Kurral directed the onset against the castle. Already the enclosure was surrounded. Torches blazed in the fields without the mud wall. The wall itself was easily surmounted at several points before the garrison could muster to defend it—even if they had been numerous enough to do so.

  “Jagannath!” cried the pilgrims, running toward the central garden, barehanded and aflame with zeal, believing that they were about to avenge a mortal sin on the part of one who had scorned the gods.

  “Jagannath!” echoed the vagrants and mercenary soldiers, fingering their weapons, eyes burning with the lust of spoil.

  “The bride of Jagannath!” shouted the priests among the throng. “Harm her not, but slay all who defend her.”

  Torches flickered through the enclosure and in the garden. Frightened stable servants fled to the castle, or huddled among the beasts. The neighing of startled horses was drowned by the trumpeting of the elephants. A mahout who drew his weapon was cut down by the knives of the peasants.

  But it was toward the palace that the assailants pressed through the pleasure garden, and the palace was ill-designed for defense. Wide doorways and latticed arbors guided the mob to the entrances. The clash of steel sounded in the uproar, and the shrill scream of a wounded woman pierced it like a knife-blade.

  The bright moon outlined the scene clearly.

  Khlit, standing passive within the main hall, could command at once a balcony overlooking the gardens and the front gate. He saw several of the rushing mob fall as the archers in the house launched their shafts.

  A powerful blacksmith, half-naked, appeared on the balcony, whither he had climbed, dagger between his teeth. A loyal peasant rushed at him with a sickle, and paused at arm's reach.

  “Jagannath!” shouted the giant, stepping forward.

  The coolie shrank back and tossed away his makeshift weapon, crying loudly for mercy. He stilled his cry at a melodious voice. “Chaitanya! Child of the sun!”

  It was old Perwan Singh, walking tranquilly along the tiles of the gallery in the full moonlight. The smith hesitated, then advanced to meet him, crouching. The minstrel struck down the dagger awkwardly with his sword. Meanwhile the recalcitrant peasant had crept behind him, and with a quick jerk wrested away the blade.

  Perwan Singh lifted his arm, throwing back his head. He did not try to flee. The black giant surveyed him, teeth agrin, and, with a grunt, plunged his dagger into the old man's neck. Both he and the coolie grasped the minstrel's body before it could fall, stripping the rich gold bangles from arms and ankles of their victim and tearing the pearls from his turban-folds.

  Before they could release the body an arrow whizzed through the air, followed swiftly by another. The giant coughed and flung up his arms, falling across the body of the coolie. The three forms lay on the tiles, their limbs moving weakly.

  Sawal Das, fitting a fresh shaft to string, trotted by along the balcony, peering out into the garden.

  The rush of the mob had by now resolved itself into a hand-to-hand struggle at every door to the castle. The blood-lust, once aroused, stilled all other feelings except that of fanatic zeal. Unarmed men grappled with each other, who had worked side by side in the fields the day before.

  A woman slave caught up a javelin and thrust at the assailants, screaming the while. For the most part the house-servants had remained loyal to Matap Rao, whom they loved.

  By now, however, all within the castle were struggling for their lives. A soldier slew the woman, first catching her ill-aimed weapon coolly on his shield. Khlit saw a second woman borne off by the peasants.

  At the main gate the disciplined defenders under Matap Rao, aided well by that excellent swordsman, Abdul Dost, had beaten off the onset. Serwul Jain and several of the younger nobles had been ordered to safeguard Retha.

  They stood in the rear of the main hall, the girl tranquil and proud, her face unveiled, her eyes following Matap Rao in the

  throng. The Rawul, by birth of the Kayasth, or student, caste, proved himself a brave man although unskilled.

  It was when the first assault had been beaten off and the defenders were gaining courage that the crackle of flames was heard.

  Agents of the priesthood among the mob had devoted their attention to firing the thatch roof at the corners. Matap Rao sent bevies of house-servants up to the terraces on the roof, but the flames gained. A shout proclaimed the triumph of the mob.

  “Jagannath!” they cried. “The god claims his bride.”

  “Lo,” screamed a pilgrim, “the fire spirits aid us. The daevas aid us.”

  Panic, that nemesis of ill-disciplined groups, seized on many slaves and peasants who were in the castle.

  “Thaneswar burns!” cried a woman, wringing her hands.

  “The gods have doomed us!” muttered a stout coolie, fleeing down the hall.

  Serwul Jain sprang aside to cut him down.

  “Back, dogs!” shouted the boy. “Death is without.”

  “Aie! We will yield our bodies to Jagannath,” was the cry that greeted him.

  “Jagannath!”

  Those outside caught up the cry.

  “Y
ield to the god.”

  The backbone of the defense was broken. Slaves threw down their arms. A frightened tide surged back and forth between the rooms. A Brahman appeared in the hall and ran toward Retha silently. A noble at her side stepped between, taking the rush of the priest on his shield.

  But the Brahman's fall only dispirited the slaves the more.

  Khlit saw groups of half-naked coolies climbing into the windows —the wide windows that served to cool Thaneswar in the Summer heat. He walked down the hall, looking for Abdul Dost.

  He saw the thinned body of soldiers at the gate struggle and part before the press of attackers. Then Bhimal, who had remained crouched beside him during the earlier fight, started up and ran, limping, at Serwul Jain.

  “Jagannath!” cried the peasant hoarsely. “My brother's god.”

  He grappled with the noble from behind and flung him to the stone floor. Coolies darted upon the two and sank their knives into the youth. Bhimal stood erect, his eyes staring in frenzy.

  “Jagannath conquers!” he shouted.

  Khlit caught a glimpse of Matap Rao in a press of men. He turned in time to see Retha's guards hemmed in by a rush of the mob, their swords wrested from their hands.

  Retha was seized by many hands before she could lift a scimitar that she had caught up against herself. Seeing this and the agony in the girl's face, Khlit hesitated.

  But those who held the wife of the Rawul were too many for one man to encounter. He turned aside, down a passage that led toward the main gate.

  He had seen Abdul Dost and Matap Rao fight loose from the men who caught at them.

  Then for a long space smoke descended upon the chambers of Thaneswar from the smoldering thatch. The cries of the hurt and the wailing of the women were drowned in a prolonged shout of triumph.

  The Rawul and Abdul Dost, who kept at his side, sought fruitlessly through the passages for Retha. Those who met them stepped aside at sight of their bloodied swords and stern faces. They followed the cries of a woman out upon the garden terrace, only to find that she was a slave in the hands of the coolies.

  Matap Rao, white-faced, would have gone back into the house, but the Muslim held him by sheer strength.