by John Speed
Da Gama found himself whispering in answer. "What power is that, then?"
Shahji seemed to consider carefully, glancing around him almost involuntarily as if checking who could hear. "The power I speak of is held by the vilest hijra in Bijapur, the sultan's Khaswajara, the eunuch Whisper, who even now vies for regency, for the control of the heir, and through him control of the kingdom. Slipper was his second in command, but he disappeared a few years ago, and no one has heard of him until now."
Da Gama considered what Shahji had said. He'd heard similar tirades by Hindi traders too drunk to mind their speech, but rarely from a sober man, and never from one otherwise as clear-headed as Shahji. Stumped for a reply, he said, "Do they all have such foolish names?"
"Names designed to fool the foolish. Their real names they tell to no one." Seeing Shahji's dark, frowning eyes, Da Gama felt concern growing in his heart. Maybe I did wrong to leave them all in Belgaum, he thought, to leave them all alone with that eunuch Slipper.
Shahji seemed to read his thoughts. "He is no danger, farang, or at least not much of one; not by himself, not without his cohorts. Clearly he has some interest in that nautch girl though. So if you must worry, worry for her. He had no designs upon the others, I would guess, or you would know by now-nor on you either, or he'd have come along."
"I never would have permitted it!" laughed Da Gama.
But Shahji's face was stern. "He'd have come, like it or not, permitted or not. He'd have found a way."
At that point, Da Gama almost told Shahji about the nautch girl's small pouch, now tucked into a secret pocket of his coat, how Maya had begged him to keep it as though she feared for her life. Almost he told him, but he held back.
By the time the sun reached its fierce zenith, they could see in the distance the dark basalt walls of Bijapur. The road grew busier with each mile, the dull clank of cowbells now always in the air. They passed a line of bullock carts, each piled mountain-high with sugarcane stalks. Straddling the sugarcane like charioteers, drivers with long reins and long whips drove the exhausted bullocks at a gallop. They passed huts of mud and grass. Naked children ran along beside them, holding out their hands.
As they stopped for afternoon prayers, Shahji nodded to a road that snaked through the hills to the south. "That road leads to Gokak Falls," he told Da Gama. "The Sultana goes there often. Have you seen it?"
"Once, in the dry season. Even then, a most impressive display."
"You should see it now, after the rains." Shahji's heavy face bore a thoughtful frown. He began talking with an unexpected urgency, as if he'd been thinking for a while and had finally made up his mind to speak. "Look, Deoga, there's some things you should know. In Bijapur you may not find what you expect."
With that, Shahji began to tell him of Victorio Dasana's recent fortunes. "He no longer lives in his great house. He's lost a lot of money playing Fives with Wall Khan, the vizier. Wall Khan has moved him into some rooms at the palace, but whether out of friendship or just to keep an eye on him until the debt is paid, who can tell?"
Shahji lowered his voice. "I know you're worried about what he'll say when he finds out about the attack." Da Gama answered with a shrug and Shahji went on. "He's lost a lot of influence, Deoga, so I don't think he can do much. But if you should have trouble, I will do what I can. In fact I'd be less worried about Victorio than about Whisper, the Khaswajara."
Da Gama stared at Shahji, suddenly more worried than ever.
"As I say, farang, I will do what I can to protect you. In the meantime, many people will wish to speak with you. Avoid them if you can. Say as little as possible, less if there are eunuchs around. Keep your wits about you." Shahji nodded toward the shadowy hills of Bijapur. "We'll be there soon. Try not to worry. Soldiers worry too much. Anyway, in a few hours you can stop worrying about what might happen, because then it will be actually happening." He chuckled as if he'd made a joke.
But it took longer to reach Bijapur than Shahji expected. When the sun disappeared behind the black clouds of the western sky and the dark walls of Bijapur turned dusky rose in its light, they still were miles from the great gate. Here the plain was dotted with farms. In the darkening air, fragrant with smoke, lamps and fires glowed in the distance. Shahji sent a rider ahead at a gallop to tell the city gatekeepers to wait for his arrival.
At last the basalt walls loomed over them, lit by torches. As they approached, the muffled sounds of the city drifted over the stone parapets. They turned left on the perimeter road; along its shoulder gypsies and tinkers stared up from their tents with glowing eyes lit by tiny dung fires.
The soldiers patrolling the gateway stood at a rigid salute when they saw Shahji, but he merely waved at them without a look as he coaxed his mount through the small horse portal embedded in the massive wooden gates. The horsemen twisted through the entrance maze and then were on the wide thoroughfare of the great city of Bijapur.
Directly ahead of them sat the monstrous cannon, Malik-e-Maidan, the biggest gun ever made, straddling the road like a beached whale. Its barrel glinted in the rising moon, an opening so wide a horse could walk straight in. "It's only been fired once that I know of," Shahji said, riding back to Da Gama's side. "They shot off some poor fellow-he had got caught mounting one of Wall Khan's wives. They shoved him right down the barrel like a cannonball! The roar was fantastic-I couldn't hear for days; smoke so thick I nearly choked! They found the fellow's body four miles from here, and everyone still argues whether he died from the firing of the cannon, or from the fall. I hope it was from the fall. I like to think of him, soaring across the plains, enjoying in his last breath a sight no other man had ever had."
The street they rode was so broad that it took Da Gama some time to realize how many people they passed. A narrow Goan street would have been packed. Food stalls and taverns bustled, for the Bijapuris were liberal about drink despite the Prophet's admonitions, and music and laughter and the smell of hot meat and cheap wine mingled in the lamplit night.
Shahji lifted his chin to point out another wall ahead of them. "That is the palace, the home of the sultan and the court. It is where I live, and also now where your man Victorio must live." Shahji smiled to Da Gama. "Look here. Stay with me tonight. It will give you a chance to rest and orient yourself before you face Victorio." Da Gama took only a moment before bowing his head in gratitude.
Shahji's palace-he called it his "cottage"-stood just inside the palace gate. Grooms appeared and helped them from their horses, but Da Gama clung to his bags with such vehemence that Shahji laughed. Inside the vestibule, a pretty young woman ran forward and placed her head on Shahji's feet. He stood above her for some time, clasping his hands at his chest, then raised her and introduced her to Da Gama as his wife. Da Gama gave her a sweeping farang bow and was rewarded with a delighted, carefree laugh. She looked about sixteen, Da Gama thought.
A servant came to show Da Gama to a guest room, but Shahji followed, only leaving when he was sure of Da Gama's comfort. After he left, Da Gama locked the door and glanced around the walls as though worried that someone watched him. Then from his saddlebag he fished out the small bag Maya had given to him, and held it in his for a long time, remembering his promise. Then he undid the knot and spilled its contents on to the bed.
Inside was a glittering spiderweb, a dazzling net of pearls and diamonds the size of peas.
Next morning, Da Gama woke to a soft knocking on his door, and a girl whispering his name. Before he could get up, the door creaked open. It was not a girl, but a young eunuch that slowly entered. "Who are you?" De Gama demanded.
The eunuch jumped back with an exaggerated start. "I thought you were asleep, sir, forgive me!" he squeaked. "I am a mukhunni associated with the household of Senhor Victorio Souza. He wishes me to bring you to him as quick as I can. I've brought fresh clothing for you, sir. My name is Mouse."
Perhaps the eunuch got his name from his eyes, which were big and long-lashed, or from his nose, which twitched when he
tried to keep still. But Da Gama guessed Mouse's nickname came from his left hand, which peeked from his billowing sleeve: the hand was brown and withered, and covered by what looked like a layer of downy fur.
Mouse floated into the room in that silent way that eunuchs had. At the foot of Da Gama's bed, he placed a set of farang clothes: a fresh pair of stockings, a clean shirt, and pants. His boots had been cleaned and blackened. "Shall I help you dress, sir?" Mouse inquired.
"I can dress myself, eunuch," he said. A look at Mouse's shocked, gentle face made Da Gama regret his tone. Even so, the hell with him, Da Gama thought. "Give me some privacy." Mouse bowed until his forehead nearly touched the floor, and slid off toward the door. "No, wait," Da Gama called. "Is there a bathing room here, senhor?"
"You should wait until we go to your uncle's rooms at the Gagan Mahal, sir, where the bath water is piping hot always."
"I'm a soldado, my boy. Cold water's fine." So Mouse led Da Gama down the narrow hallway to a tiled room, scarcely more than a drain and a bucket. "This will do." From a tap, he filled the bucket-ice-cold water, stored in a cistern on the roof, Da Gama guessed-and poured it over his head. Then another bucket, and another. All the time he cursed his soldier's bravado. All I had to do was be agreeable, he told himself, and I'd be bathing in hot water. Piping hot always.
Shivering, he wrapped himself in a muslin sheet and returned to his room, leaving a wet trail on the marble floor. Mouse sat next to the door, and lowered his head when he passed. It took some time after he dressed before the warmth returned to his skin.
Da Gama gathered up his things and threw the saddlebags over his shoulder. He did not need to look to know that Maya's headdress was no longer among them. Outside, Mouse tried to carry his bags, but Da Gama refused. The eunuch looked crushed. He walked as though trying to hide his withered hand from Da Gama's sight. It looked like a gesture he had practiced often. The eunuch jabbered pleasant nonsense as he followed Da Gama down the corridor. That was Slipper's habit as well, Da Gama remembered. Maybe eunuchs couldn't keep their mouths shut.
They found their way to the central courtyard. Shahji's palace-his cottage, Da Gama corrected himself-was simple and elegant, and the walls of burnished plaster glistened like gold in the morning light.
Shahji stood near the outer door. "I'm glad you finally got up, farang. You slept well?" He didn't wait for an answer, but threw an arm around Da Gama's shoulders and led him away from Mouse. "I don't usually allow eunuchs in my house, but he had clean clothes for you and would let no one else touch them. Did I do wrong?"
Da Gama shook his head. "I am indebted to you, General, and will always be."
"Remember-what help I can give to you is yours. I'll be watching, never fear." The general's face furrowed, and he dug into his pocket. "Here is a hundred hun."
Da Gama eyes grew wide. "I don't need money, General."
"Then take it only to humor me. Pay me back in a month. You may find this more useful than you think." He clasped the coins into Da Gama's hands and lowered his voice. "In the meantime, remember my words, eh? And have a paratha before you go." With that he marched out the door, giving a general's vague wave behind him.
Da Gama, smiled, picked up one of the fragrant pancakes, and tilted his head toward the door. "Come, Mouse," he said. "We who are about to die. . ."
"Die, sir?" Mouse blinked.
"Never mind. Let's go."
They rode in separate covered palanquins through the early morning streets of Bijapur. Palanquins always made Da Gama ill at ease. Bearers were rarely in the best of health. You could pull the curtain and hide them from your sight, but you could not escape their phlegmy breathing and the constant stream of their whispered curses. Unless the bearers were well matched in height and stride-and they never were-the palki rocked nauseously, worse than any boat. They moved as slowly as the oldest, weakest bearer, who invariably was the elder and in charge. All this for some illdefined prestige, as if you were too grand for your feet to touch the ground.
Through the curtains Da Gama could not see much, but he guessed they were heading east. The buildings here seemed newer, plainer, more utilitarian. They had a raw, embarrassing nakedness, like a man showing his pink and flabby belly to a doctor. Da Gama knocked the side of the palki. "Where are we going?" The elder bearer lifted his grizzled chin to a long, windowless building with a tile roof. A twist of faded cloth hung limp from a pole above the single door. It took Da Gama a moment to recognize the flag of Portugal.
With a puffy, scaly hand, Victorio Souza stroked his eunuch's cheek. "What do you think of my gelding, eh?" he asked Da Gama. "We all must have them, now-every household must have its gelding, that's the new rule, isn't it, Mouse?" The eunuch lowered his eyelids and shrugged, but pressed his head closer to Victorio's palm. "Well, it's turned out better than I ever thought. He's a great comfort to me, and he's smart." He turned to Mouse and said in Hindi, "Four hundred and twenty-eight from one thousand three hundred nineteen."
"Eight hundred ninety-one, uncle," Mouse answered, crinkling his nose.
"How do you like that, eh?" Victorio said in Portuguese. "Does sums in his head."
"How do you know if he's right?" Da Gama asked. Victorio merely glared in reply, and pressed his fat fingers on Mouse's withered hand. The old man had aged since Da Gama had last seen him. His cheeks sagged as if weighted; his watery eyes nearly hid by flesh that bagged from his eyebrows. His nose drooped now, blue and fissured, even gray in places. Instead of a distinguished silver, his mustache had turned yellow. Victorio wore an old man's knit hat for warmth though the air was hot, and his body filled the chair like a bag of sand.
It was going rather well, all things considered, Da Gama thought. Victorio heard the story of the bandit attack with a mournful reticence. None of it shocked or disturbed him; it was as if he'd already heard the news. But he lifted his heavy head each time Da Gama mentioned Lucinda. "And she is well? She is well?" he asked each time Da Gama said her name. Mouse's eyes never left Victorio's lips when he spoke. He's trying to learn Portuguese, Da Gama guessed.
Despite the early hour, Victorio's swollen hand, its skin peeling like an old snake's, cupped a flagon full of sherry. "What do you think of this factor?" Vittorio asked nodding vaguely toward the building where they sat.
"I can't rightly say, sir. I've seen so little of it." For Mouse had brought Da Gama straight to Victorio's tiny office as soon as they'd arrived.
"You'll see more. You'll see it all. I'll have Mouse show you. I don't walk so well these days; I let Mouse be my eyes and cars. He's very clever." His hand stroked the eunuch's withered fingers. Da Gama wondered if the wine were drugged. Victorio tilted his head so his eyes looked deep into Da Gama's. "But I need more than a eunuch now, Captain."
Da Gama looked up, hearing an invitation in Victorio's words, or a warning.
"Have you not grown tired of soldiering? Are you ready to settle down? Take a woman, build a house? Get a gelding of your own?"
"The thought has crossed my mind, sir," Da Gama answered carefully. Except the part about the gelding, he thought.
"My brother Carlos is dead." The news slapped Da Gama like an unexpected wave. "My brother-in-law, I mean. Poisoned, from all accounts. Died the very day you left. He improved for a little while before your caravan left Goa, then died a few hours later. In great pain. Typical of poison."
"Dead? Poisoned?" It took a moment for Da Gama to process this information. "Who would poison him?"
"We may guess. When Carvallo, his secretary, sent news of Carlos's death, he said the valet had found Lucinda's box of arsenico by the bed."
Da Gama felt as if his heart were twisting on a blade. "She could never...
"You know about her mother, don't you?" Da Gama shook his head. "Brain fever. She spent her last four years chained to her bed, screaming. God, I was glad when she died. She poisoned her first husband, you know."
"I had no idea."
"No, we kept it quiet. Even Lucinda think
s she died in Lisbon. Same with my Lucinda's aunt, my wife. Jumped to her death from a church tower. So we've been watching for signs in the girl, because, well ... You never know, do you? Carlos should have been more alert." When Da Gama gave no answer, Victorio leaned forward. "I need to trust you, Da Gama. You are a relative, though a distant one. I need to trust our ties of blood." Victorio looked at him, pressing the question with his eyes.
"I am your servant, sir."
Victorio looked toward some distance only he could see. "I don't need a servant, Da Gama. I need a partner now, a friend. I need your help." He looked at him earnestly. "Did Carlos send any money?"
"Only the rials I used to bribe the bandits," Da Gama answered bitterly. "That's gone."
With a great sigh Victorio slowly lowered his hand to the arm of his chair. Da Gama tried to show no reaction when Mouse placed his face against it like a pillow. "Matters are delicate at the moment. The finances of our family are ... well ... complicated. Extended. Speculative." He looked at Da Gama significantly. Beside him, Mouse raised his dark-lashed eyes.
You're broke, Da Gama realized. Da Gama remembered Shahji's comments about Victorio's gambling. He said nothing.
"Our fortunes are enmeshed with those of the sultanate. It's not yet clear who will be regent to the young heir. Whoever gets the post will rule Bijapur for eight years at least. He will be the master of our fortunes. We've thrown in our lot with Wall Khan, the grand vizier, but his path is by no means certain."
