The Moghul Part 24

Pulling himself up off the couch, he started unsteadily across the hard flat tile of the roof. Immediately a servant was beside him, producing a heavy silk wrap and swathing it around his shoulders and waist. Then the man bowed again and spoke in accented Turki.

"May Allah prosper you today, Sahib. May your fortunes answer the prayers of the poor." The man's expression softened to match his own compliment. "Should it please the Sahib, his morning bath is waiting."

Without thinking, without even hearing the words, he allowed himself to be led through the doorway into the second-floor apartment. There, in the center of the room, was his chest, its lock intact. He examined it with a quick glance, then followed the servants down a set of stone stairs to the ground-floor veranda--where a steaming marble tub waited.

Good Jesus, not again! How can I make them understand? Bathing weakens a man.

He started to turn, but suddenly two eunuchs appeared out of nowhere and were guiding him up the two marble steps to a stone platform, where they seated him on a filigreed wooden stool. Silently the servants stripped away his light wrap and began to knead his body and his hair with a fragrant powder, a blend of wood bark and some astringent fruit.

The scent was mild, pleasant, and as their hands traveled over him he felt the pores of his skin open to divulge their residual rankness.

This is better, he thought. Cleaning without water. With only some sort of powder. I feel refreshed already.

His muscles loosened as the men vigorously worked the mixture into his skin and then carefully cleansed it away with bulky cotton towels. Next they turned to his hair, combing and ma.s.saging more of the powder through it strand by strand. At last they signaled for him to rise and enter the tub. Its surface glistened with a perfumed oil, and the rising steam smelled faintly of clove. Before he could protest, the eunuchs guided him down the marble steps.

As he settled into the steam again he was surrounded by waiting servants, who sprinkled more oil over the water and ma.s.saged the emulsion into his hair and skin.

I'm being bathed in oil, he smiled, marveling. It's absurd, yet here it seems perfectly right.

The men worked devotedly, as though he were an inanimate utensil whose purity was their lifelong obligation. His body now glistened with a reddish tint of the oil, matching the early glow of the sun that penetrated the half- shuttered windows. As they motioned for him to leave the bath, he discovered to his amazement that he would have been perfectly content to stay. Forever. But again hands were there, guiding him, this time toward a low wooden bench covered with thick woven tapestries.

What now? What else can they do? I'm cleaner than the day I was born.

What more . . .

He was prostrate on the couch. A rough haircloth worked against his legs and torso, sending the blood surging. At the same time, a piece of porous sandstone in the practiced hands of another servant stripped away the loosened calluses and scales from his boot-roughened feet. A third man ma.s.saged still more perfumed oil, hinting of aloe and orange, into his back and along his sides and shoulders. His body had become an invigorated, pliant reed.

They motioned for him to sit up and, as he watched, one of the men produced a mirror and razor. Next he opened a bottle of fragrant liquid and began to apply it to Hawksworth's beard and chest. And then also to his legs and crotch.

"What's the purpose of that razor?"

"We have orders to shave you, Sahib, in our manner." The turbaned man who had greeted him that morning bowed slightly as he signaled the barber to begin. "You are to be shaved completely, as is our custom."

"Trim my beard if you like. But no more. d.a.m.n you if you'll shave me like some catamite." Hawksworth started to rise from his stool, but the barber was already over him, the blade flying across his face with a menacing deftness.

"It has been ordered, Sahib." The turbaned man bowed again, and without pausing for a reply produced a short, curved metal device and began to probe Hawksworth's ears, his face intent in concentration as he carefully extracted an enormous ball of gray mud and encrusted sea salt. He sc.r.a.ped the other ear with the same deft twist. Then he flipped the same instrument and began to trim Hawksworth's ragged fingernails.

Hawksworth turned to the mirror to discover that his beard had already disappeared, leaving him clean-faced.

At least I'll be in fas.h.i.+on back home, he thought, if I ever get back.

Beards are pa.s.sing from style.

But what's he doing now? By heaven, no . . .

The razor swept cleanly across Hawksworth's chest, leaving a swath of soft skin in its wake. It came down again, barely missing a nipple as he moved to rise.

"You must be still, Sahib. You will harm yourself."

"I told you I'll not have it." Hawksworth pushed the razor away.

"But it is our custom." The man seemed to plead. "Khan Sahib ordered that you be groomed as an honored guest."

"Well, d.a.m.n your customs. Enough."

There was a moment of silence. Then the turbaned man bowed, his face despondent.

"As the Sahib desires."

He signaled the barber to rub a light coat of saffron-scented oil on Hawksworth's face and then to begin tr.i.m.m.i.n.g Hawksworth's hair with the pair of silver scissors he had brought. The barber quickly snipped away the growth of the voyage, leaving the hair moderately cropped, in the Moghul fas.h.i.+on.

Hawksworth examined the mirror again.

d.a.m.n if I wouldn't make a proper Cheapside dandy. Right in style. And I hate being in style.

Then the turbaned man produced a heavy lead comb and began to work it repeatedly through Hawksworth's hair. Hawksworth watched the mirror in confusion.

What's he doing? It's already been combed. And it's so short there's no point anyway.

Then he noticed the slight traces of gray around the sides beginning to darken, taking on the color of the lead.

"Please open your mouth." The turbaned man stood above him holding a dark piece of wood, frayed at the end and crooked. "And I will sc.r.a.pe your teeth with _nim_ root."

"But that's insane. Teeth are cleaned with a piece of cloth and a toothpick. Or rubbed with a bit of sugar and salt ash . . ."

The man was scrubbing away at Hawksworth's mouth-- tongue, gums, teeth-- using a dentifrice that tasted like burnt almond sh.e.l.ls. Next he offered a mint-flavored mouth rinse to remove the debris.

The turbaned man then inspected Hawksworth critically from several sides, finally venturing to speak.

"If I may suggest, a bit of _collyrium_, castor oil darkened with lampblack, would render your eyes much more striking." Without waiting for confirmation, he applied a few quick strokes to Hawksworth's eyelids, much as an artist might touch up a canvas.

Then one of the eunuchs stepped forward and supplied a silver tray to the turbaned servants. On it were folded garments: a tight-fitting pair of blue trousers, a patterned s.h.i.+rt, and a knee-length coat of thin, peach-colored muslin. They dressed Hawksworth quickly, and then secured a patterned sash about his waist. Waiting on the floor were leather slippers, low-quartered with a curved toe and a bent-down back.

"What have you done with my doublet and breeches? And my boots?"

"They are being cleaned today, Sahib. You may have them again when you wish. But you may prefer to wear our garments while our guest." The turbaned man bowed again, then he moved away and held a long mirror for Hawksworth to examine himself.

"Have we pleased you, Sahib?"

Hawksworth scarcely recognized himself. He had been transformed from a rank but honest seaman into a Moghul n.o.ble--youthful, smooth-skinned, smelling of spice. The soreness was banished from his limbs, and even his wound had all but disappeared. His hair was clean and completely dark, and his skin glowed. And his new clothes were more elaborate than anything he had ever worn.

"Now if you will please follow us to the garden. Khan Sahib has suggested you begin your day with some _tari _wine."

Hawksworth followed the men through the shuttered doorway into the open courtyard. The morning sun now illuminated the tops of a large grove of palm trees that circled an open cistern. He quickly surveyed the buildings, hoping to gain his bearings.

So I've been quartered in one of the side buildings, off the main palace. But there are many, many rooms. Who's living here?

A group of servants stood waiting at the base of one of the palms. When they saw Hawksworth, they mobilized to action. One young man among them, wearing a white wrap around his lower torso, immediately secured his belt and began to s.h.i.+mmy up the leaning palm. When he reached the top he locked his legs around the trunk and carefully detached an earthen pot that hung beneath an incision in the bark of the tree.

Balancing the pot in one hand, he stretched and nimbly pulled off a number of leaves from the tree and then lowered himself carrying his load. The moment his feet touched ground he raced toward the veranda and delivered the pot and leaves to a waiting eunuch.

Hawksworth watched as the eunuchs first inspected the items and then ordered them prepared. The leaves were washed thoroughly with water from the cistern and then folded into natural cups. The liquor from the pot was strained through muslin into a crystal decanter and the earthen receptacle discarded. Then one of the turbaned servants poured a large portion of the liquor from the decanter into a palm-leaf cup and offered it to Hawksworth.