The Temple Dancer (29 page)

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."