The Temple Dancer

by John Speed

  Da Gama nodded to her, smiling a little, for he saw that she too was subtle. Feeling his way as a man in a dark place, he answered. "The girl had been promised to the grand vizier. Later Victorio changed his mind, and agreed to sell her to the Khaswajara. The vizier expressed his prior claim. I'm not sure how Victorio would have decided to resolve the matter."

  "Lies!" Whisper fixed him with his old eyes. "Our brother Slipper was there. He had made up his mind right before he died."

  "My master Victorio would say, I fear, whatever popped into his head. Had he lived five more minutes, he might have changed his mind again. Highness, it's my opinion, since you asked me, that he planned to play both sides against each other up to the final moment."

  The Khaswajara pursed his lips, and Wall Khan scowled. The Sultana sat in silence. "So tell us: What is your interest in this matter, Deoga?" she asked finally.

  "I have my obligation to the Dasanas; I must see that they are treated fairly."

  "It's been said that you were Victorio's partner."

  Da Gama saw Whisper glance quickly toward Geraldo. He could not see the trap, but sensed the danger nonetheless. "Your Highness mentioned Victorio's liberality. He made many more promises than he kept. He promised partnerships. More than once. To me, and to others. Settlement men don't believe in promises." He cast a glance toward Geraldo. "In my case, I suppose he merely wanted me to lend him money. He had many debts."

  "Deoga," the muffled voice said slowly, "you are most surprising. Here is the Dasana estate, a great fortune, waiting only for you to reach out your hand. Yet you avoid making a claim. Others have not been so reluctant."

  Da Gama lowered his eyes and shrugged.

  "Tell us, Deoga-who in your opinion owns the nautch girl at this moment?"

  "Until a settlement is made, she is the properly of Lucinda Dasana, highness, the heir of the Dasana fortune."

  "That person is a villainess and a murderer, and her claim is forfeit!" Whisper coughed with the effort of his speaking.

  "She may be accused, but she is not condemned," Da Gama answered. "And her estate, as I understand it, is forfeit only after her conviction and her death."

  "That should be easy to arrange," Whisper rasped.

  "Except that she is gone, Lord Khaswajara."

  "Abetted, highness, by this man!" Whisper lifted his bony finger to the vizier. "Wall Khan's burak has betrayed your justice!"

  The Sultana, hidden behind her wall of cloth, made no sign of having heard. When she spoke again Da Gama thought he heard a pleading in her muffled voice. "Deoga, to face difficulties is the lot of a settlement man, is it not? How would you settle this matter?"

  What's she like in there? Da Gama wondered. Young? Old? Devious? Terrified?

  He made up his mind to speak to her as to a sister, if he'd had one. "Highness, it is up to us to do our best, and then leave the rest to God. First I would decide. Then I would enforce." Despite his aching body, he straightened. "Since no one has clear claim, maybe I'd begin by wondering how to do the most good. The Khaswajara-what is his desire here? Has he become a patron of the dance? Why does he want a nautch girl? Why this one? What does she have, eh?" Whisper glowered at Da Gama, but he said nothing. "And the vizier. Making promises and treaties with your enemies. Using that young woman as baksheesh." Wall Khan gave a worried look, not certain how to take this statement. "And yourself, highness. When you must choose between two men of such stature, how can you have peace? I would ask-is there any way to satisfy everyone? And if not, whose plea most benefits the cause of the heir?"

  Beneath her veils the Sultana sighed. "Oh, you are dangerous, farang. You play upon us, mixing truth and doubt in equal measure. Like a conjurer, you gesture with one hand to distract us from the other."

  Da Gama, regardless of the vizier's advice, bowed deeply. "You have seen through me, highness. But I say this with my whole heart-better you decide than I."

  "Yes, there we agree, sir." She rose from her silver bench-she was so small it was hard to tell that she had stood. A pair of eunuch boys rushed to arrange her skirts so she could walk. "Our audience is at an end."

  Wall Khan stood too. "But, Highness, what have you decided?"

  "Nothing, sir. First we will speak to this nautch girl."

  "Will Whisper be with you when you do?" the vizier said accusingly.

  "That is our concern, sir, not yours." Without another word, she moved to the door, trailing yards of cloth behind her. Whisper and the eunuch boys followed close behind, and after them a half-dozen eunuch guards. All around Da Gama, courtiers bowed so low, they swept the floor with the backs of their hands.

  When the courtiers began to depart, murmuring to each other, Da Gama approached the vizier. "You are not satisfied, sir."

  "I am not. But at least you did not speak against me."

  "I thought I spoke in your favor, sir, but who can tell." Da Gama lowered his head. "Someday I might need a job, sir. Your burak is gone."

  The vizier hmmphed. "When that day comes, you'll know how to find me. But who knows-maybe I too will need a job."

  As he walked off, Geraldo came over. "Why did you not betray me, Da Gama?"

  Da Gama eyed him, wondering if he'd done the right thing. "I had my reasons."

  A shrewd look came into Geraldo's eyes, and his handsome smile reappeared. "You're afraid of me!"

  Da Gama's face was blank. "Remember that I did you a favor."

  Geraldo considered a response, but finally merely shook his head. He hurried away, asking for Whisper.

  Shahji came up behind Da Gama. "Neither good nor bad," he said. "If it had been me, I'd have spoken in favor of the hijra. Seven lakh hun! You may have thrown that away. And you might have said you were a partnerwho could dispute it?"

  "I was not meant to be a rich man, General." They walked across the painted wooden floor of the Flying Palace.

  But Shahji appeared not to have heard. "She's going to decide the regency. That's why she came here-to get away from all the pressure. As though this place were any less a nest of snakes than Bijapur." Shahji looked carefully at Da Gama. "She asks my opinion. I hope I speak as well as you have done."

  "What have you decided, General?"

  "Much as I hate to do so, I must side with the hijra. Wall Khan's the better man, but he'd instantly replace me as commander. He owes too much to Afzul Khan. But I hate the hijra . . ." Shahji shook his head. "They will squeeze and squeeze and squeeze me. And how will I resist them?" Shahji forced a laugh. "You don't need to hear my problems, though. At least not sober. Let's find some wine."

  Behind the muslin purdah screens that shielded the traveling zenana from unwanted eyes, Maya sat beneath a tree in a field that had recently been mowed and raked to make a lawn. The short grass felt stiff and slightly moist, and still gave off the fresh perfume of mowing. The grand tent of the Sultana, brightly colored, with gold bossed poles, rose in the center of the lawn. Around it were a dozen lesser tents, where maids and eunuchs napped.

  She had taken the Gita from her bag, and struggled to concentrate on it, but her eyes drifted toward the sound of the river. On the other shore, the Sultana sat in audience, deciding her fate. She knew whatever happened next would be the working of the Goddess's will, but still she wondered. She could not help herself.

  A few women and eunuchs made their lazy way through the encampment, some with water jugs on their heads, others carrying great heaps of laundry. Somewhere a flute was playing.

  A few yards away, a pretty eunuch boy tossed a silver ball into the air, and caught it. He looked very bored and unconcerned, but each toss brought him a few steps closer to Maya. She focused on her book.

  When the silver ball rolled a few inches from her feet, Maya looked up. The boy came toward her, scooped up the ball, and stared. She stared back for a while, but he said nothing, and at last she turned away. Then, of course, he spoke. "What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like?"

  "Women can't read."
r />   "I can."

  The boy flipped the ball into the air a few times, and then sat a few feet from her. His clothes were very fine, and he wore many rings. A hijra boy being trained for royal service, Maya guessed. The boy moved closer. "What's that language?"

  "Sanskrit. It is the language of the gods."

  "You're a heathen," he said brightly. "I worship the one true god." When Maya did not answer, he tried again. "I can read. Persian and Arabic."

  "Very nice."

  "Play ball with me?"

  There was something in his eyes that caught her off guard; a look of eagerness and resignation, of hopes dashed. She saw, maybe, her kinship with him, that of slave to slave. Instead of telling him to go away, she closed her book, and folded it in its silken cover, and stood. "I'm not very good."

  "That's all right." He tossed the silver ball to her. It was expensive, hollow silver, heavy with engravings. "Do you like it? You can have it if you want."

  "Let's just play." She threw the ball, so swift and hard he laughed.

  "Who said you weren't good? Girls can't throw that hard."

  "I can."

  Back and forth they tossed the ball. He kept stepping back, challenging her, laughing when she reached him all the same. Soon they were both laughing, running to catch it as the ball glittered in the air. Sometimes he made a diving catch despite his fine clothing.

  "What's your name?" he asked after they'd played a while.

  "Maya."

  "Mine's Adil. You're the new nautch girl. Slipper told me."

  Maya's face grew cold at Slipper's name. For a moment, she'd forgotten. "I'm tired," she said, and sat again beneath the shade.

  The boy came over to her, and pulled a shiny pomegranate from his pocket. "Want some?" He pushed his thumbs in the end of the fruit and split it in two, revealing seeds as bright as rubies, and offered her half.

  That's when she saw it: the scarlet mark on his palm-the mark of the evil eye.

  The same mark as she had seen just days before on Lady Chitra's hand. "How old are you?" She tried to mask the urgency in her voice.

  "I'm nine." The boy looked up. "Damn. I can't play anymore. I have to work." Maya turned, and saw what he had seen: a woman moving toward them like a walking hill of cloth, followed by a few more eunuch boys, and a skinny old eunuch, dry as a dead branch. "Maybe I'll see you again." He raced off to join them.

  Having seen the return of the Sultana, Maya could not be calm: she tried to read, she stood, she sat, she folded up her book again.

  After a little while, a maid appeared. "The queen wants to speak with you. Follow me." Maya picked up her shoulder bag. As they walked toward the Sultana's tent, the maid chatted in a friendly way, telling her which tent was which, gossiping. "We saw you playing with Adil," she said. "He doesn't like many people."

  "He seems nice enough," Maya answered. "Has he been a servant long?"

  The maid stopped short and laughed. "Did you think he was a eunuch?"

  "Isn't he?"

  Again the maid laughed. "Are you not familiar with our ways? Boys of royal blood stay in the harem with their mothers until they are married. The eunuchs teach them. Surely you knew this."

  Maya shook her head. "Is he of royal blood, then?"

  "Dear girl, of course. He is the only son of the Sultana. He is the Heir." Maya's eyes grew wide. "He's the sultan of Bijapur, silly. You really didn't know?"

  Her way seemed so bright and offhand, that Maya only realized after she had left that the maid had told her much useful information in their time together. What to call the Sultana; where to sit. And she'd told Maya to be watchful of the Khaswajara: "Dry as an old bone, but crafty, with eyes like a cobra that has lived too long."

  The Sultana never acknowledged Maya's bow. She perched on a stool. The thin old eunuch by her side was Whisper, Maya had no doubt. She saw that he'd developed a habit of tilting slightly when he stood, first to one foot, then the other. She wondered if he ever got to sit.

  The Khaswajara had some business to discuss, some petition from a courtier, which he spoke of endlessly in a low, husky voice. Maya could not tell if the queen even heard a word. Piece by piece, two maids undressed her, like servants unpacking some rare piece of porcelain wrapped in layers of batting. Walking in endless circles around her, they unwrapped the Sultana. They removed bolt after bolt of cloth and then started on the next. Slowly the Sultana dwindled, smaller and smaller as each piece was put away, until at last her face appeared, and then her tiny body.

  She was younger than Lady Chitra, older than Maya-but though her face was smooth, her hair was mostly gray. One of the eunuch boys brought her a jade cup, and she drank it off in a gulp. She held out the cup, and let it drop without a care. The eunuch boy retrieved it in midair.

  The queen's eyes flicked toward Maya, and then turned away.

  The maids clothed her in a simple dressing gown. Her movements and the maids' seemed stylized, almost like a dance. The queen would lift her arm or drop her heel as if certain that her maid would be in place to catch it. It was more exquisite than dance, Maya thought, more disturbingmovement without thought or feeling-like the clockwork figures she'd seen for sale in Cochin's bazaar.

  The Sultana at last took a seat among some cushions, which a maid had plumped just moments before. "The heir must have his nap," she said to no one in particular. "See to it. Then an hour of Persian study. Then his prayers. Then bed. Now leave us." The servants bowed.

  "Not you," she then said, her dark eyes at last finding Maya's.

  When the others had gone, the queen indicated with a glance the place beside her. "You're very pretty," the Sultana said after considering her for a moment.

  "You are kind, madam," Maya said, sitting.

  "But those clothes of yours are dreadful. Never mind, we'll find some better." Maya inclined her head in thanks, but the Sultana had looked away. "We have a little time together to ourselves. Don't pretend shyness. We have not the patience. Why are you worth seven lakh hun? Can you tell me?"

  "No, madam."

  The Sultana stared at some place far away. "It can't be congress, can it? The eunuchs have no use for that."

  "I dance," Maya said helpfully.

  "All nautch girls dance." She gave Maya a long appraising look, as though reviewing every detail of her appearance. Maya felt the heat rise to her cheeks. "As far as Wali Khan, the answer's plain: sex. Sex obviously. You're young, well muscled. Of course you know the tricks? They all do."

  Maya turned away. She whispered her mantra until she'd regained her calm. When she turned back, she saw the queen's expression, irritated and amused. "There, we've upset you. But now we can see-it is your beauty that the vizier covets. Those eyes, we think, that glow when you are angry, and those fine lips. They would drive a man like Wall Khan to some distraction. He's a connoisseur. He collects fine women, and makes a trade in them. He sends out scouts to find the best, the young ones not yet worn out." The Sultana looked away, as if for a moment wistful, jealous. So unguarded, she seemed to Maya very sad. When again she spoke, she whispered. "Have you no one in this world, child? Are you all alone?"

  "My guru, perhaps. But she is lost. I thought she was dead, but I see her in dreams. Deoga has befriended me."

  The Sultana rolled her eyes. "Never trust farangs. He's tossed you over, like an empty cup. You must begin to cultivate your own resources. It appears that we are now your only hope, child. And we don't know what we are to do with you."

  "Tossed me over?" whispered Maya, but the queen was saying something else and did not hear.

  "Now the vizier's already bargained you away," the queen went on, as if repeating facts well known to them both. "Do you know Murad?" Maya shook her head, not yet taking it all in. "He's the son of Shah Jahan, the Mogul emperor. He's the Mogul viceroy in Surat. Wall Khan has made a treaty with the Moguls. And you, dear child, you are the seal on the contract. What do you think of that?"

  "I am a slave, madam."

  "Su
rely your brain still works? Let us tell you about Murad. He's harmless. He has a hundred wives, and never sleeps with any of them." She made a sign of drinking and nodded significantly. "Wall Khan is not to be trusted, but we could make certain that he sent you there. That would be best for you. Surat's hot, but otherwise no worse than Bijapur. Yes, that would be best." She sat up, as though a matter was settled. "But why does the Khaswajara want you? Why are you worth seven lakhs? What does he have in mind?" She nodded to Maya's bag. "What's in there?"

  Instead of saying, Maya spilled the contents at the Sultana's feet. The queen picked up her things, item by item. "A book. Dravanas? Is that all? Surely you have more in there?"

  Reluctantly, Maya took out her broken sword, the rough-sawed coin, and last of all the headdress. The queen examined each piece carefully. "There's a story here, isn't there? Come nearer. So many ears about. Nearer still." She motioned Maya to her ear. "Tell us of these things, but quietly."

  Despite the wine, Da Gama could not sleep. He hated tents. In the middle of the night he gave up and left his tent to walk beneath the stars.

  A few fires burned, a few shadows moved in the darkness, but the camp was quiet. All that could be heard was the endless roaring of the nearby falls. The full moon burned so bright the grass looked silver, and Da Gama cast faint shadows as he walked.

  Without a conscious thought, he found himself moving toward the river. As he left the circle of grand tents the crickets chirped noisily, and once in some bushes he saw the glowing eyes of a panther, but the beast darted off. Suddenly he wished he had his pistolas. No one in the camp carried weapons except the eunuch guards.

  By the time he came to the river's edge his borrowed slippers were soaked through. The river still ran high, and here and there eddies that had formed along the shore glittered in the moon. Da Gama came to the narrow wooden bridge that led to the zenana camp. Across the river a eunuch guard lounged against the railing.

  Here the roaring grew loud. He stepped onto the bridge. Even over the river noise, he heard the wood and lashings squeak with his every step. In the middle he leaned against the rail, which sagged against his weight.