The Moghul Part 50

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 cl.u.s.tered 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.

G.o.d 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 impa.s.sively.

"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 p.r.o.nounced 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 n.o.ble. 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.

Hawksworth was already peeling off his jerkin. He'd seen

enough fires on the gun deck to know the man whose clothes caught always panicked.

If I can reach her in time I can smother the robe before she's burned and maimed. Her legs . . .

Before he could move, the woman suddenly turned and poised herself at the edge of the roaring pit. She emitted one long intense wail, then threw herself directly into the fire. At that moment the robes of a second woman caught, and she too turned and plunged head-first into the flames.

Merciful G.o.d! What are they doing!

The three remaining women paused for a moment. Then they clasped hands, and, as though on a private signal, plunged over the edge into the inferno, their hair and robes igniting like dry tinder in a furnace.

The women all clung together as the flames enveloped them.

Hawksworth tried to look again into the pit, but turned away in revulsion.

"What in h.e.l.l is happening?"

Vasant Rao's eyes were flooded with disbelief.

"They must have been his concubines. Or his other wives. Only his first wife was allowed to have the place of honor beside his body. I've. . ."

The Rajput struggled for composure. "I've never seen so many women die in a _sati_. It's . . ." He seemed unable to find words. "It's almost too much."

"How did such a murderous custom begin?" Hawksworth's eyes were seared now from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. "It's unworthy of humanity."

"We believe aristocratic Rajput women have always wished to do it. To honor their brave warriors. The Moghul has tried to stop it, however.

He claims it began only a few centuries ago, when a Rajput raja suspected the women in his palace were trying to poison him and his ministers. Some believe the raja decreed that custom as protection for his own life, and then others followed. But I don't think that's true.

I believe women in India have always done it, from ancient times. But what does it matter when it began. Now all rani, the wives of rajas, follow their husbands in death, and consider it a great honor. Today it seems his other women also insisted on joining her. I think it was against her wishes. She did not want to share her moment of glory.

_Sati_ is a n.o.ble custom, Captain Hawksworth, part of that Rajput strength of character wanting in other races."

A hand seized Hawksworth's arm roughly and jerked him back through the crowd, a sea of eyes burning with contempt. Amid the drifting smoke he caught a glimpse of the bullock carts of the caravan, lined along the far end of the road leading into the fortress. The drivers were nowhere to be seen, but near the carts were cattle sheds for the bullocks.

If they can send innocent women to their death, life means nothing here. They'll kill us for sure.