The Temple Dancer

by John Speed

  The guard startled. "Nobody calls him that, you lout-not in public, anyway.

  "I call him that, fool! He is my brother and my friend. In the name of the Sultana, take me to him!" Slipper could now see the end of caravan drawing closer. In desperation he hurled himself at the eunuch guard's feet. "Brother!"

  To the fury of everyone at the crossroads, the caravan was halted. Runners hurried messages to the Flying Palace and back. The guards at the crossing had to brandish their lances as the crowd grew restless. At last a eunuch dressed in robes as bright as the noonday sun came gracefully down the road, along with two finely outfitted guardsmen. At the sight of him, patches of color formed on Slipper's wide cheeks, and he began to tremble.

  The eunuch, very fair and sophisticated, dripped with pearls: necklaces, earrings so heavy they hooked over the tops of the eunuch's ears, strands of pearls that looped through his gold embroidered turban, so large that they clicked together with his every swaying step. He examined Slipper as if he were a dead bird he'd found in the marble courtyard of the harem: something unexpected and not very pleasant. "Oh, dear," he sighed.

  "Brother!" Slipper's voice was choked, and he lowered his eyes as the other eunuch approached. "My name. . ."

  "You have no name. I do not know you." He turned the eunuch guards and lifted his hands sadly. "We came in error. . ." He began to walk away.

  Slipper gave a whimper that changed into a wail. He tried to leap forward, but the guards had anticipated this, and they blocked his path with crossed lances. "No! Wait! Don't go! I have found it!" Slipper cried out.

  At this the other turned slowly. "Found it? Where? Tell me."

  "No." Slipper's voice was firm. "To Whisper, only to Whisper."

  The other considered this. After a moment, he glanced at the guards. As soon as they lowered their lances, Slipper lurched through. "And say my name! Say it! "

  The other eunuch, taller, younger maybe-but with eunuchs, who could tell?-calmer, and certainly better dressed, looked at Slipper, with his turban, as usual, unraveling, with his threadbare silks now travelworn and stained. Slipper pulled himself up to all his small height, and lifted his nose in a gesture so haughty that the guardsmen struggled not to laugh. "Say it," Slipper said again.

  "Nawas Sharif," the other said, after a long pause.

  At the sound of his name, Slipper closed his eyes like one tasting an old, delicious wine. "Ali Nawas Sharif," he demanded softly.

  The other took now a longer time. The words seemed to pain him. "Ali Nawas Sharif," he said at last.

  With the guardsmen behind him, Slipper walked to the Flying Palace. The hoisting ropes hung limp: the elephants had set the palace on the ground. Two footmen holding long horsehair whisks stood beside a set of silver stairs, set down only when the caravan halted. At a glance from the bejeweled eunuch, the guards bowed to Slipper as he mounted. Unseen hands pulled the velvet entry curtains wide, and Slipper was swallowed up in shadow.

  A moment later, the footmen took away the stairs. Hup, hup, the mahout captain called. The four matched elephants each took three steps outward; the hoisting ropes groaned, and the Flying Palace lurched into the air.

  The elephants marched forward with slow steps. The caravan began to move.

  Slipper had come home.

  Slipper did not mind the wariness of the brothers who attended him. He understood-how could he not? But he snapped at them anyway, as demanding and fussy as any concubine, and why not? They bathed the road dust from his face and hands with rose water and brought linens, and how long had he been deprived of such necessities? They found silk jamas that would fit him, and he snapped insults while they pulled his arms through the sleeves and smoothed the thin stiff silk across his corpulent shoulders.

  "I need jewels," Slipper fussed. "Bring me rings, good ones. And a necklace. Where is Whisper?" he demanded. "Bring Whisper to me now.,, Knowing all the time of course that these attendants would do no such thing at all.

  After washing and dressing and fussing, the elegant eunuch that had met Slipper at the crossroads reappeared and shooed the lesser eunuchs away. The two stared at one another; the only sounds the creaking of the walls and the groaning of the ropes, and outside the occasional muffled trumpet of an elephant. Though the room gave the impression of being a room in a palace, the floor sometimes lurched, as though they stood in an enormous boat with great waves rolling underneath.

  "The Khaswajara will see you now." He waited for a moment, and then added, "Brother." The word seemed to take much effort.

  "I remember this room, these walls, those sounds," Slipper said softly.

  "Nothing has changed much since you ... went away," the other replied.

  "I have changed."

  They mounted the narrow staircase that led to the upstairs breezeway. On one side, Slipper's hips rubbed along the wall, on the other they hung out over empty space. He leaned into the steps, pressed his hands on them, and so came into Whisper's presence looking rather furtive and uncertain.

  "Leave us," Whisper said to the other eunuch.

  His voice, as always, sounded hollow, rasping-and as always, so soft that Slipper had to strain to hear. For some reason, Whisper wore no turban, and his fine, colorless hair, dry as bleached straw, drooped to his narrow shoulders. He was as thin as Slipper was fat, brittle as an old reed, his face a thin skull lined with skin dry as parchment. Finally he turned to Slipper, and blinked like a bird.

  "How many years has it been?" croaked Whisper. The floor lurched, and Whisper nearly fell. He looked so frail, so old, thought Slipper, that he might shatter if he landed hard.

  "Nine, I think. How old is the heir? You had just been named Khaswajara... how many years is that?"

  "Ten years, then." Whisper shook his head wistfully, and motioned for Slipper to follow to a comfortable alcove. "How have you been, brother?"

  "How do you expect, brother?" Slipper's words were soft, but his tone was venomous. "You yourself gave the order."

  "It was the Brotherhood council that decided, not I," Whisper murmured. "Blame them, not me."

  "You were part of the council."

  Whisper shrugged as he sat near the gauze-curtained window. His bones creaked. "It was for your own good, brother, and the good of the Brotherhood. Surely you saw that? Surely you see that now?" Whisper motioned to a cushion facing his. "You say you've found it." His rasping, shallow voice could not disguise his eagerness.

  Slipper sat heavily. No food, he noticed, no drink. "Not much welcome, brother," he pouted. "I shall want a great deal better treatment than this." Slipper laughed, like the laugh of a nasty boy. "I should tell you everything now, I suppose, so you can take the Web, and thus cast me aside?"

  "You should tell me so your exile may be ended. It was you that lost the Web in the first place, brother."

  "That's not true!"

  "But that's what the council found, and so it is true, brother." Whisper's leathery lips parted to reveal his long teeth. "But now you've found it again, so what difference is there?"

  Slipper leaned back. "I'll want a post of power. Not in the harem, either. A real one, this time. In the court."

  "It can be done."

  "A house of my own. Not just rooms."

  "Yes."

  "Jewelry. My old jewels back. That woman who brought me here, he was wearing one of my rings! I want it returned, everything returned, and a full accounting!"

  "Yes, yes," came Whisper's answer. "All that and more." His big eyes were bright. "You found it?"

  "Yes," Slipper sighed, leaning back. He thought about demanding something to drink, but in truth he was as eager as Whisper. And so, with no more delay, he began to tell the story of Maya.

  On the cold ground of the courtyard of the fort, Shahji's soldiers snored in brown blankets, like great locusts in cocoons. Da Gama's eyes flew open at first light, though the western sky was still filled with stars. He rose from his borrowed bedroll and pulled on his heavy boots. The damp morning air chill
ed his skin.

  Da Gama took his bearings. He had been on the road with Shahji's men for nearly a week. Now it seemed to him most foolish that he had decided to travel to Bijapur with Shahji. He should have gone alone.

  General Shahji had been on tour of review when he and his men rescued the caravan. That night, when Da Gama said he had to get to Bijapur, Shahji suggested joining them. "Ride with my guard. Take a few extra days," Shahji had said, "Visit a few forts with me, and arrive in Bijapur rested and safe."

  He did not need to add, you'll arrive in the company of the commander general. That would give a certain cachet to Da Gama, and right now Da Gama needed all the cachet he could get.

  They were close to Bijapur now-a few hours' ride; they could get there today. Da Gama began to worry. He should not have delayed. But he had enjoyed the delay, a fact that worried him even more. Instead of facing the questions and anger of Senhor Victorio, Da Gama had enjoyed the company of Shahji, and his life of rugged ease.

  Da Gama had heard of Commander Shahji, of course; he knew that he was a wily and ferocious soldier who'd once been a rebel, who had made peace and become the general commander of Bijapur's armies. He hadn't expected a man of Shahji's background to be so cynical and yet so friendly, so strategic and yet so practical. It was clear why Shahji had been named commander, despite being a Hindi.

  When they'd reached the first fort Da Gama had asked permission to sleep outside with Shahji and his men. After his initial surprise, Shahji agreed. "Real soldiers hate a roof," Da Gama had told him. Shahji kept his face impassive, but his eyes had the look of man who had found a friend.

  On this morning Da Gama caught the scent of bread frying. He sniffed a few times, guessed the direction, and walked away from the sleeping soldiers. A few yards behind the main barracks was a squat brick kitchen. As Da Gama approached, a dozen gray crows flapped from the ground and into the wide mango tree. A yellow dog snarled at him, but stopped when Da Gama growled back.

  When Da Gama ducked through the low kitchen door, he saw a few women working near a small fire, peeling onions and grilling chapatis. Sparrows flew through the window, fluttering onto the low rafters. One of the women looked up and tossed Da Gama the flat bread she was cooking. He snatched it from the air.

  "You want a real soldier, just find the kitchen." From a dark corner, Shahji grinned at him. "There's butter here." Da Gama sat beside him, stretching out his muddy boots in front of him. He knew it was impolite to stretch one's legs, but he didn't care. It made him happy. He didn't know the next time he'd be happy.

  Using his punch dagger, Shahji scooped a mound of butter from a clay dish onto Da Gama's chapati. "Don't tell me you don't like the stuff," Shahji said. "I can see well enough that you do."

  "No, I like it enough," Da Gama laughed. "What plans have you got, General?"

  Shahji looked him over. "We're on our way back to Bijapur. Our inspection is done." Shahji paused. "You're starting to get worried, Deoga. You're beginning to wonder if you did right, leaving that young farang in charge back at Belgaum." With a shrug and a tentative nod, Da Gama allowed that this might be so. "You see, you are not very hard to understand. I myself wonder if you were wise to do that."

  Da Gama stared at Shahji for a moment. "Why do you say that, sir? He is a sort of hero, is he not? He was the one who went for help. He was the one who found you and your men. If he had not found you, we might all now be very dead."

  Shahji lifted his eyebrows. "Take some more butter, sir," he said. "That man of yours, I think he was not running for help. I think he was running away. We had heard the shots and were already coming to investigate. One of my men had to chase him to bring that youth around." Shahji gave Da Gama a moment to let this sink in. "Maybe you should have put the eunuch in charge."

  Da Gama looked back, blinking.

  Shahji nodded seriously and went on, "I myself was most surprised to see that eunuch with you. He had been a very respected fellow at the sultan's court. He was the Khaswajara's right-hand man. You know what this word means, Khaswajara?"

  "I know," Da Gama said. "Are you sure it is that same one?"

  Shahji nodded. "He got into some trouble at court. Hijras ... who understands their ways? He must be back in Whisper's good graces or he'd still be banished. He might have the Sultana's ear as well." Shahji chuckled and gave Da Gama's shoulder a pat. "Hey, listen, Deoga, what do I know, eh? I'm only a simple soldier, just like you. Maybe that Geraldo fellow will do everything right."

  "Who can say? But what can I do now?" Da Gama answered, shaking his head. "Done is done. Geraldo is family. If I left anyone else in charge, my masters wouldn't understand." Da Gama tore a piece of bread, but chewed as though it had no flavor. "If Pathan were not hurt, it would have been an easy choice."

  "Yes," Shahji agreed. "Prince Pathan's a good man. And quite rich, if the gossip is to be believed, but he'd rather be a soldier than a noble. Makes you wonder, though. Why would a rich man want to be a soldier?" Shahji stood, and gave a howling, stretching yawn that made the women round the cook fire stare and laugh aloud. "Today, Deoga, you get to Bijapur! Come, we'll wake the others."

  "You farangs don't come here, do you? Not to the interior of Hindustan," Shahji said to Da Gama as the day's journey wore on. "Mostly you cling to the seaports, like swimmers frightened to get too far from shore."

  "Yes, General. My travels on the Deccan Plateau have been all too few. Much of this is new to me," Da Gama agreed. His imaginary map of Hindustan consisted of a coastline and a few mountain passes that led to nearby trading cities, islands in his sea of ignorance. He had not really understood the sweep of the country; how beyond the moist green mountains like those that sheltered Belgaum stretched an endless dry and fissured plain, punctuated here and there by green fields and shadowed forests, a boundless expanse of rock-strewn earth more tedious than any ocean.

  The horses' heads nodded heavily and they breathed hard now as their road wound upward under the relentless sun, always upward. By the light of last night's sunset they had first seen on the horizon the high plain of the city of Bijapur. Now its far-off shadow taunted them, refusing to come closer no matter how long they rode.

  Da Gama missed the sweet, soft sea winds of the coast. Here the air smelled like hot metal and parched his tongue and the wind blew blister dry, so dry he did not sweat despite the heat. Though he drank from his bronze canteen, the water now sour and tepid, his thirst never ebbed.

  Shahji had made a special point of riding near Da Gama on this last day of the journey, asking brief, careful questions that Da Gama answered with good humor. He enjoyed the general's company. He noticed that Shahji seemed to feel more comfortable with him than he did with his own men. At first Da Gama had thought that this was the typical tendency of an officer to isolate himself. Then he realized that Shahji was an immigrant to Bijapur, a former enemy who made a lucrative surrender and had been named commander. Da Gama guessed that Shahji, like himself, felt like a stranger, and sought the comfort of the company of another stranger. Also, of all the travelers only he and Shahji were non-Muslims. He wondered what Shahji had done during prayer times before he had Da Gama to chat with.

  Despite their growing familiarity, however, Shahji did not speak entirely freely. While he offered his opinions about court politics and scandals, about the extravagance of the courtiers and the treachery of eunuchs, he skirted military matters.

  Even so, Da Gama got a vague understanding about the Malve forts to the northwest and how those forts gave Bijapur dominance of the western trade routes. He pieced together that Shahji had been a rebel general who had managed to control enough of that territory to bring Bijapur to its knees, and had chosen at last an honorable alliance instead of constant war.

  Now Shahji was rich, now he had power, but always would he be a stranger to the Bijapuris, and always suspect. Few men could be his confidants, Da Gama realized; and this explained, maybe, why Shahji seemed so determined to be friendly with Da Gama.

&nb
sp; The general seemed particularly interested in the details of the bandits' attack on the Goan caravan, and he asked Da Gama about it several times. At first Da Gama wished that his Hindi was better, for he assumed that Shahji had not rightly understood him, but slowly discovered that Shahji wanted as full a description as he could give.

  Shahji's questions began to circle especially around Slipper-how had he come to be part of the caravan in the first place? Da Gama explained that Slipper had arrived at Orissa just about the time he'd picked up the nautch girl, sent to accompany her on her trip to Bijapur. Yes, said Shahji, but how had he found out about the nautch girl in the first place? Had he been sent by Carlos Dasana, or by someone in Bijapur? Who arranged for him to get to Orissa so quickly? Da Gama, sadly, could not answer to Shahji's satisfaction.

  "But what difference does it make, General?" Da Gama asked. "He's only a eunuch."

  Shahji considered Da Gama's face for a long time before he answered. "Tell me why you say that."

  "Well, I suppose he's sort of a lady's maid or something, isn't he? Don't eunuchs tend the women, just as grooms tend the horses?" Da Gama felt suddenly very foolish.

  "Is that what you suppose?" Shahji lowered his voice to a whisper, but his eyes burned. "Eunuchs are a disease. Like tapeworms they attach themselves to the noble and the rich; like ticks they bloat on others' blood. They have no children to provide for, no heirs to fret over. This, they claim, makes them objective and less apt to steal. It is but another of their endless lies.

  "Soon they manage the harem, soon the servants, then the household, even the family business. Every great household has its Khaswajara and soon no one can stir except with his approval.

  "They seduce the women with obscene tricks and the men with drink and opium and abominations. Their tongues are agile, and their ears are quick. Who else knows the most intimate details of their masters' lives? Who else listens with such rapt attention?

  "Eunuchs have no religion, no country, no family, no friends. Like rats who build a city in a sewer, they've established a society all their own, a brotherhood of secrets, of borrowed wealth and stolen goods, populated by children kidnapped and then maimed. Like moles they make their vile plots in hidden burrows. From behind a curtain they move the world as a puppet master moves the hands of a doll. Their brotherhood is dark and powerful, and in Bijapur, Slipper was one step from the greatest power of all."