The Moghul Part 26

"I'd like to be alone for a while. To think about . . . to enjoy the beauty of the garden."

"Of course. Sahib. Perhaps I could have the honor of being your guide."

"I think I'd prefer to see it alone."

The servant's dismay was transparent, but he merely bowed and immediately seemed to dissolve into the marble porticoes of the veranda, as did all the others.

Hawksworth watched in amazement. They really do follow orders. Now if I can start to figure out this place. I don't need guides. All I need are my eyes. And luck.

The garden spread out before him. Unlike the closely clipped geometry of the courtyard he had seen the night before, this was less formal and more natural, with a long waterway receding into the horizon. The pond was flanked by parallel arbors along each side, shading wide, paved walkways. He noticed there were no flowers, the main focus in an English garden, only gravel walks and the marble-tiled watercourse. The sense was one of sublime control.

Several dark-skinned gardeners in loincloths were wading knee-deep in the shallow reservoir, adjusting the flow from bubbling fountains that spewed from its surface at geometrically regular s.p.a.cings, while others were intently pruning--in what seemed a superfluous, almost compulsive act--the already immaculate hedges.

As Hawksworth walked past, self-consciously trying to absorb a sense of place, the gardeners appraised him mutely with quick, flicking sweeps of their eyes. But none made any move to acknowledge his presence.

The sun burned through the almost limitless sky, whose blue was polished to a ceramic glaze, and the air was clean and perfumed with nectar. The garden lay about him like a mosaic of naturalism perfected.

Through the conspicuous hand of man, nature had been coerced, or charmed, to exquisite refinement.

The gravel pathway ended abruptly as he reached the pond's far sh.o.r.e, terminated by a row of marble flagstones. Beyond lay geometrical arbors of fruit-laden trees-- mangoes, apples, pears, lemons, and even oranges.

Hawksworth tightened his new robe about his waist and entered one of the orchard's many pathways, marveling.

I've found the Garden of Eden.

The rows of trees spread out in perfect regularity, squared as carefully as the columns of the palace verandas and organized by species of fruit. As he explored the man-made forest, he began to find its regularity satisfying and curiously calming. Then in the distance, over the treetops, a high stone wall came into view, and from beyond could be heard the splashes of men laboring in the moat. He realized he had reached the farthest extent of the palace grounds.

As he neared the wall, the orchard gave way to an abandoned clearing in whose center stood a moss-covered marble stairway projecting upward into s.p.a.ce, leading nowhere. The original polish on its steps was now buried in layers of dust and overgrowth.

Was there once a villa here? But where's the . . . ?

Then he saw the rest. Curving upward on either side of the stairway was a moss-covered band of marble over two feet wide and almost twenty feet in length, concave, etched, and numbered.

It's some sort of sundial. But it's enormous.

He turned and realized he was standing next to yet another stone instrument, a round plaque in red and white marble, like the dial of a water clock, on which Persian symbols for the zodiac had been inscribed. And beyond that was the remains of a circular building, perforated with dozens of doorways, with a tall pillar in the middle.

Next to it was a shallow marble well, half a hemisphere sunk into the ground, with precise gradations etched all across the bottom.

Hawksworth walked in among the marble instruments, his astonishment growing. They were all etched to a precision he had never before seen in stone.

This observatory is incredible. The sundial is obvious, even if the purpose of the stairway over its center isn't. But what's the round vertical plaque? Or that round building there, and the curious marble well? Could those be some sort of Persian astrolabe, like navigators use to estimate lat.i.tude by fixing the elevation of the sun or stars?

What are they all for? Some to fix stars? Others to predict eclipses?

But there has to be more. These are for observation. Which means there have to be charts. Or computations? Or something.

It's said the Persians once mastered a level of mathematics and astronomy far beyond anything known in Europe. Is this some forgotten outpost of that time? Just waiting to be rediscovered?

He turned and examined the instruments again, finding himself wondering for an instant if they could somehow be hoisted aboard the _Discovery_ and returned to England.

And if the observatory's still here, perhaps the charts are here somewhere too.

His excitement mounted as he searched the rest of the clearing. Then he saw what he wanted.

It has to be there.

Ab.u.t.ting the stone wall was a small hut of rough-hewn stone, with slatted windows and a weathered wooden door that was wedged ajar, its base permanently encrusted in the dried mud of the rainy season. The wall behind was so weathered that the metal spikes along its top had actually rusted away.

This whole place must have been deserted for years. What a waste.

As he approached the weathered stone hut, he tried to dampen his own hopes.

How can there be anything left? Who knows how long it's been abandoned?

And even if there are calculations--or maybe even books!--they're most likely written in Persian. Or Arabic.

He took hold of the rotting door, which left a layer of decaying wood on his hand, and wrenched it open wider, kicking a path for its base through the crusted mud. Then he slipped sideways through the opening.

A stifled, startled cry cut the dense air of the hut, and an oil lamp glowing in the black was smothered in a single movement. Then came a woman's voice.

"You're not allowed here. Servants are forbidden beyond the orchard."

She had begun in Persian, then repeated herself in Hindi.

"Who are you?" Hawksworth, startled by the unknown languages, began in English and then switched to Turkish. "I thought . . ."

"The English _feringhi_." The voice suddenly found control, and its Turki was flawless. "You were in the courtyard this morning." She advanced slowly toward the shaft of light from the doorway. "What are you doing here? Khan Sahib could have you killed if the eunuchs discover you."

He watched as her face emerged from the shadows. Then his heart skipped.

It was Shirin.

"The govern . . . Khan Sahib told me about this observatory. He said I . . ."

"Stars do not shine in the day, nor the sun in this room. What are you doing in here?"

"I thought there might be charts, or a library." Hawksworth heard his own voice echo against the raw stone walls of the room. He studied her face in the half light, realizing with a shock that she was even more striking now than in the sunshine of the garden.

"Did he also tell you to plunder all you find in the palace grounds?"

"He said I might find the observatory curious, as a navigator. He was right. But there must be some charts. I thought this room might . . ."

"There are some old papers here. Perhaps he thought this place would keep you occupied. Or test you one more time."

"What do you mean?"

She answered with a hard laugh, then circled Hawksworth and examined him in the glancing morning light. Her dark hair was backlighted now from the sun streaming through the doorway, her gauze head scarf glistening like spun gold.

"Yes, you're a _feringhi_. Just like all the rest." Her eyes flashed.

"How many more like you are there in Europe? Enough, I would guess, to amuse our debauched governor forever."

"I didn't double the Cape for his amus.e.m.e.nt. Or yours." What's the matter? Everybody talks in riddles. "Does this room have a library?"