He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly began to take
form. It was a cell, with heavy bamboo slats over the windows and an
ancient wooden latch on the door. The floor was earth and the walls
gray mud with occasional inscriptions in red. Next to him was a
silhouette, the outline of a man squatting before an oil lamp and
slowly repeating a sharp, toneless verse. He puzzled at the words as he
studied the figure.
It's the language of the priest at the wedding. It must be Sanskrit.
But who . . . ?
He pulled himself upward on an elbow and turned toward the figure,
which seemed to flicker in the undulating shadows. Then he recognized
the profile of Vasant Rao. The verses stopped abruptly and the Rajput
turned to examine him.
"So you're not dead? That could be a mistake you'll regret." Vasant
Rao's face sagged and his once-haughty moustache was an unkempt tangle.
He stared at Hawksworth a moment more, then turned back to the lamp.
The Sanskrit verses resumed.
"Where the hell are we?"
Vasant Rao paused, and then slowly revolved toward Hawksworth.
"In the fortress village of Bhandu, ten _kos_ northwest of the
town of Chopda. It's the mountain stronghold of the Chandella dynasty
of Rajputs."
"And who the hell are they?"
"They claim direct descent from the ancient solar race of Rajputs
described in the Puranas. Who knows, but that's what they believe. What
we all do know is they've defended these hills for all of time."
"Did they take the caravan?"
A bolt of humiliation and pain swept through Vasant Rao's eyes for a
moment and then his reserve returned. "Yes, it was taken."
"So your mighty 'solar race' is really a breed of God- cursed
common bandits."
"Bandits, they are. They always have been. Common, no. They're
professionals, honorable men of high caste."
"High-caste thieves. Like some of the merchants I've met."
Hawksworth paused and tried to find his tongue. His mouth was like
cotton. "How long've we been here?"
"This is the morning of our second day. We arrived yesterday,
after traveling all night."
"I feel like I've been keelhauled for a week." Hawksworth
gingerly touched his forehead and there was a pulse of pain.
Vasant Rao listened with a puzzled expression. "You were tied
over your horse. Some of the clan wanted to kill you and leave you
there, but then they decided that would give you too much honor."
"What the hell are you talking about? I remember I gave them a
fight."
"You used a pistol. You killed a man, the head of this dynasty,
with a pistol."
The words seemed to cut through the shadows of the room. The
pain returned and ached through Hawksworth's body.
More deaths. The two men who died on the _Discovery_. I saw Nayka die
with an arrow in his throat. And how many of the Rajput guards died?
Why am I always in the middle of fighting and death?
"The bastards killed my driver."
"The driver was nothing. A low caste." He shrugged it away. "You
are an important _feringhi_. You would not have been harmed. You should
never have drawn a pistol. And then you allowed yourself to be
captured. It was an act beneath honor. The women spat on you and your
horse when you were brought through the streets. I have no doubt
they'll kill us both now."
"Who's left alive?"
"No one. My men died like Rajputs." A trace of pride flashed through
his eyes before they dimmed again with sadness. "When they knew they
could not win, that they had failed the prince, they vowed to die
fighting. And all did."
"But you're still alive."
The words seemed almost like a knife in the Rajput's heart.
"They would not kill me. Or let me die honorably." He paused and stared
at Hawksworth. "There was a reason, but it doesn't concern you."
"So all the men died? But why did they kill the drivers?"
"The drivers weren't killed." Vasant Rao looked surprised. "I never
said that."
I keep forgetting, Hawksworth told himself, that only high castes count
as men in this God-forsaken land.
"This whole damned country is mad." The absurdity overwhelmed him. "Low
castes, your own people, handled like slaves, and high castes who kill
each other in the name of honor. A pox on Rajputs and their fornicating
honor."
"Honor is very important. Without honor what is left? We may as well be
without caste. The warrior caste lives by a code set down in the Laws
of Manu many thousands of years ago." He saw Hawksworth's impatience
and smiled sadly. "Do you understand what's meant by _dharma_?"
"It sounds like another damned Hindu invention. Another excuse to take
life."
"_Dharma_ is something, Captain Hawksworth, without which life no
longer matters. No Christian, or Muslim, has ever been able to
understand _dharma_, since it is the order that defines our castes--and
those born outside India are doomed to live forever without a caste.
_Dharma_ defines who we are and what we must do if we are to maintain
our caste. Warfare is the _dharma_ of the Kshatriya, the warrior
caste."
"And I say a pox on caste. What's so honorable about Rajputs
slaughtering each other?"
"Warriors are bound by their _dharma_ to join in battle against other
warriors. A warrior who fails in his duty sins against the _dharma_ of
his caste." Vasant Rao paused. "But why am I bothering to tell you
this? I sound like Krishna, lecturing Arjuna on his duty as a warrior."
"Who's Krishna? Another Rajput?"
"He's a god, Captain Hawksworth, sacred to all Rajputs. He teaches us
that a warrior must always honor his _dharma_."
Vasant Rao's eyes seemed to burn through the shadows of the cell. From
outside Hawksworth heard the distant chantings of some village
ceremony.
"If you'll listen, _feringhi_ captain, I'll tell you something about a
warrior's _dharma_. There's a legend, many thousands of years old, of a
great battle joined between two branches of a powerful dynasty in
ancient India. Two kings were brothers, and they shared a kingdom, but
their sons could not live in peace. One branch wished to destroy the
other. Eventually a battle was joined, a battle to the death. As they
waited on the field for the sound of the conch shell, to summon the
forces, the leader of those sons who had been wronged suddenly declared
that he could not bring himself to kill his own kinsmen. But the god
Krishna, who was charioteer for this son, reminded him he must follow
his _dharma_. That there is no greater good for a warrior than to join
battle for what is right. It's wrong only if he is attached to the
fruits of battle, if he does it for gain. It's told in the Bhagavad-
Gita, a Sanskrit scripture sacred to all warriors. I was reciting a
verse from Chapter Twelve when you woke."
"What did this god Krishna say?"
"He declared that all who live must die, and all who die will be
reborn. The spirit within us all, the _atman_, cannot be destroyed. It
travels through us on its journey from birth to rebirth. But it's not
correct to say merely that it exists. It is existence. It is the only
reality. It is present in everything because it is everything.
Therefore there's no need to mourn for death. There is no death. The
body is merely an appearance, by which the _atman_ reveals itself. The
body is only its guardian. But a warrior who turns away from the duty
of his caste sins against his honor and his _dharma_. Krishna warned
that this loss of honor could one day lead to the mixture of castes,
and then the dharma of the universe, its necessary order, would be
destroyed. It's not wrong for a Rajput to kill a worthy foe, Captain
Hawksworth, it's his duty. Just as it's also his duty to die a worthy
death."
"Why all this killing in the name of 'honor' and 'duty"?"
"Non-Hindus always want to know 'why.' To 'understand.' You always seem
to believe that words somehow contain all truth. But dharma simply is.
It is the air we breathe, the changeless order around us. We're part of
it. Does the earth ask why the monsoons come? Does the seed ask why the
sun shines each day? No. It's _dharma_. The dharma of the seed is to
bear fruit. The dharma of the warrior caste is to do battle. Only
_feringhi_, who live outside our dharma, ask 'why.' Truth is not
something you 'understand.' It's something you're part of. It's
something you feel with your being. And when you try to catch it with
words, it's gone. Can the eagle tell you how he flies, Captain
Hawksworth, or 'why"? If he could, he would no longer be an eagle. This
is the great wisdom of India. We've learned it's wasted on _feringhi_,
Captain, as I fear it's now wasted on you."
The talk left Hawksworth feeling strangely insecure, his mind wrestling
with ideas that defied rationality.
"I know there are things you understand with your gut, not with your
head."
"Then there may be hope for you, Captain Hawksworth. Now we will see if
you can die like a Rajput. If you can, perhaps you will be reborn one
of us."
"Then I might even learn to be a bandit."
"All Rajputs are not the same, Captain. There are many tribes,
descended from different dynasties. Each has its own tradition and
genealogy. I'm from the north. From the races descended from the moon.
This tribe claims descent from the solar dynasty, which also began in
the north. I think their genealogy goes back to the god Indra, who they
claim brought them into being with the aid of the sun."
Vasant Rao turned and continued reciting in Sanskrit. His face again
became a mask.
Hawksworth rubbed his head in confusion and suddenly felt a hard lump
where the club had dropped. The fear began to well up in his stomach as
he remembered the stony-faced riders who had surrounded him in the
river. But he pushed aside thoughts of death.
_Dharma_ be damned. What did he mean, they're members of a clan
descended from the "solar dynasty"? They're killers, looking for an
excuse to plunder.
I'm not planning to die like a Rajput just yet. Or be reborn as one.
Life is too sweet just as it is. I'm beginning to feel alive here, for
the first time ever. Shirin is free. I've got a feeling I'll be seeing
her again. Whatever happens, I don't care to die in this piss hole,
with empty talk about honor. Think.
He remembered the river again, and quickly felt in his boot. The other
pistol was still there.
We'll find a way to get out. Somehow. We may just lose a few days'
time, that's all. We made good time so far. Six days. We left on
Sunday, and we've been here two days. So today is probably Monday.
He suddenly froze.
"Where are the carts?"
"At the south end of the village. Where they have the _chans_, the
cattle sheds. The drivers are there too."
"Is my chest there?"
"No. It's right there. Behind you." Vasant Rao pointed into the dark.
"I told them it belonged to the Moghul, and they brought it here. I
guess the Moghul still counts for something here. Maybe they're
superstitious about him."
Hawksworth pulled himself up and reached behind him. The chest was
there. He fingered the cool metal of the lock and his mind began to
clear even more. Quickly he began to search his jerkin for the key. Its
pockets were empty.
Of course. If I was tied over a horse it.. .
Then he remembered. For safety he had transferred it to the pocket of
his breeches the second day out. He felt down his leg, fighting the
ache in his arm.
Miraculously the key was still there.
He tried to hold his excitement as he twisted it into the lock on the
chest. Once, twice, and it clicked.
He quickly checked the contents. Lute on top. Letter, still wrapped.
Clothes. Then he felt deeper and touched the metal. Slowly he drew it
out, holding his breath. It was still intact.
The light from the lamp glanced off the burnished brass of the Persian
astrolabe from the observatory. It had been Mukarrab Khan's parting
gift.
He carried it to the slatted window and carefully twisted each slat
until the sun began to stream through.
Thank God it's late in the year, when the sun's already lower at
midday.
He took a quick reading of the sun's elevation. It had not yet reached
its zenith. He made a mental note of the reading and began to wait.
Five minutes passed--they seemed hours--and he checked the elevation
again. The sun was still climbing, but he knew it would soon reach its
highest point.
Vasant Rao continued to chant verses from the Bhagavad- Gita in terse,
toneless Sanskrit.
He probably thinks I'm praying too, Hawksworth smiled to himself.
The reading increased, then stayed the same, then began to decrease.
The sun had passed its zenith, and he had the exact reading of its
elevation.
He mentally recorded the reading, then began to rummage in the bottom
of the chest for the seaman's book he always carried with him.
We left Surat on October twenty-fourth. So October twenty-fifth was
Karod, the twenty-sixth was Viara, the twenty-seventh was Corka, the
twenty-eighth was Narayanpur, the twenty-ninth was the river. Today has
to be October thirty-first.
The book was there, its pages still musty from the moist air at sea. He
reached the page he wanted and ran his finger down a column of figures
until he reached the one he had read off the astrolabe.