minutes north.
Then he began to search the chest for a sheaf of papers and finally his
fingers closed around them, buried beneath his spare jerkin. He
squinted in the half light as he went through the pages, the
handwriting hurried from hasty work in the observatory. Finally he
found what he wanted. He had copied it directly from the old Samarkand
astronomer's calculations. The numerals were as bold as the day he had
written them. The latitude was there, and the date.
With a tight smile that pained his aching face he carefully wrapped the
astrolabe and returned it to the bottom of the chest, together with the
books. He snapped the lock in place just as the door of the cell swung
open.
He looked up to see the face of the man who had swung the club.
Good Jesus, I thought he was dead. And he looks even younger. . . .
Then Hawksworth realized it had to be his son. But the heavy brow, the
dark beard, the narrow eyes, were all the same, almost as though his
father's blood had flowed directly into his veins. He wore no helmet or
breastplate now, only a simple robe, entirely white.
The man spoke curtly to Vasant Rao in a language Hawksworth did not
understand.
"He has ordered us to come with him. It's time for the ceremony. He
says you must watch how the man you killed is honored."
Vasant Rao rose easily and pinched out the oil lamp. In the darkened
silence Hawksworth heard the lowing of cattle, as well as the distant
drone of a chant. Outside the guards were waiting. He noted they
carried sheathed swords. And they too were dressed in white.
In the midday sunshine he quickly tried to survey the terrain. Jagged
rock outcrops seemed to ring the village, with a gorge providing an
easily protected entrance.
He was right. It's a fortress. And probably impregnable.
The road was wide, with rows of mud-brick homes on either side, and
ahead was an open square, where a crowd had gathered. Facing the
square, at the far end, was an immense house of baked brick, the
largest in the fortress village, with a wide front and a high porch.
As they approached the square, Hawksworth realized a deep pit had been
newly excavated directly in the center. Mourners clustered nearby,
silently waiting, while a group of women--five in all--held hands and
moved slowly around the pit intoning a dirge.
As they reached the side of the opening he saw the Rajput's body, lying
face up on a fragrant bier of sandalwood and _neem_ branches. His head
and beard had been shaved and his body bound in a silk winding sheet.
He was surrounded by garlands of flowers. The wood in the pit smelled
of _ghee_ and rose-scented coconut oil. Nearby, Brahmin priests recited
in Sanskrit.
"His body will be cremated with the full honor of a Rajput warrior."
Vasant Rao stood alongside. "It's clear the Brahmins have been paid
enough."
Hawksworth looked around at the square and the nearby houses, their
shutters all sealed in mourning. Chanting priests in ceremonial robes
had stationed themselves near the large house, and an Arabian mare, all
white and bedecked with flowers, was tied at the entrance. Suddenly the
tones of mournful, discordant music sounded around him.
As Hawksworth watched, the heavy wooden doors of the great house opened
slowly and a woman stepped into the midday sunshine. Even from their
distance he could see that she was resplendent--in an immaculate white
wrap that sparkled with gold ornaments--and her movements regal as she
descended the steps and was helped onto the horse. As she rode slowly
in the direction of the pit, she was supported on each side by Brahmin
priests, long-haired men with stripes of white clay painted down their
forehead.
"She is his wife." Vasant Rao had also turned to watch. "Now you'll see
a woman of the warrior caste follow her _dharma_."
As the woman rode slowly by, Hawksworth sensed she was only barely
conscious of her surroundings, as though she had been drugged. She
circled the pit three times, then stopped near where Hawksworth and
Vasant Rao were standing. As the priests helped her down from the mare,
one urged her to drink again from a cup of dense liquid he carried. Her
silk robe was fragrant with scented oil, and Hawksworth saw that
decorations of saffron and sandalwood had been applied to her arms and
forehead.
It's a curious form of mourning. She's dressed and perfumed as though
for a banquet, not a funeral. And what's she drinking? From the way she
moves I'd guess it's some opium concoction.
She paused at the edge of the pit and seemed to glare for an instant at
the five women who moved around her. Then she drank again from the cup,
and calmly began removing her jewels, handing them to the priest, until
her only ornament was a necklace of dark seeds. Next the Brahmins
sprinkled her head with water from a pot and, as a bell began to toll,
started helping her into the pit. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as
she knelt next to her husband's body and lovingly cradled his head
against her lap. Her eyes were lifeless but serene.
The realization of what was happening struck Hawksworth like a blow in
the chest. But how could it be true? It was unthinkable.
Then the man who had brought them, the son, held out his hand and one
of the Brahmins bowed and handed him a burning torch. It flared
brilliantly against the dark pile of earth at the front of the pit.
God Almighty! No! Hawksworth instinctively started to reach for his
pistol.
A deafening chorus of wails burst from the waiting women as the young
man flung the torch directly by the head of the bier. Next the priests
threw more lighted torches alongside the corpse, followed by more oil.
The flames licked tentatively around the edges of the wood, then burst
across the top of the pyre. The fire swirled around the woman, and in
an instant her oil-soaked robes flared, enveloping her body and
igniting her hair. Hawksworth saw her open her mouth and say something,
words he did not understand, and then the pain overcame her and she
screamed and tried frantically to move toward the edge of the pit. As
she reached the edge she saw the hovering priests, waiting with long
poles to push her away, and she stumbled backward. Her last screams
were drowned by the chorus of wailing women as she collapsed across the
body of her husband, a human torch.
Hawksworth stepped back in horror and whirled on Vasant Rao, who stood
watching impassively.
"This is murder! Is this more of your Rajput 'tradition"?"
"It is what we call _sati_, when a brave woman joins her husband in
death. Did you hear what she said? She pronounced the words 'five, two'
as the life-spirit left her. At the moment of death we sometimes have
the gift of prophecy. She was saying this is the fifth time she has
burned herself with the same husband, and that only two times more are
required to release her from the cycle of birth and death, to render
her a perfect being."
"I can't believe she burned herself willingly."
"Of course she did. Rajput women are noble. It was the way she honored
her husband, and her caste. It was her _dharma_."
Hawksworth stared again at the pit. Priests were throwing more oil on
the raging flames, which already had enveloped the two bodies and now
licked around the edges, almost at Hawksworth's feet. The five women
seemed crazed with grief, as they held hands and moved along the edge
in a delirious dance. The heat had become intense, and Hawksworth
instinctively stepped back as tongues of fire licked over the edge of
the pit. The mourning women appeared heedless of their own danger as
they continued to circle, their light cloth robes now only inches from
the flame. The air was filled with the smell of death and burning
flesh.
They must be mad with grief. They'll catch their clothes . . .
At that instant the hem of one of the women's robes ignited. She
examined the whipping flame with a wild, empty gaze, almost as though
not seeing it. Then she turned on the other women, terror and confusion
in her eyes.