The Moghul

sorted through her words, and in the dream's darkness he vowed to take her again. The next time, it's you who'll surrender, woman called Kali. To my will. And you'll find out the meaning of surrender.
    But his thoughts were lost among the gilded panels as she pulled the silk from his eyes and quietly whispered something he did not understand. In that instant he thought he saw where a tear had stained a path across one cheek. She looked at him longingly, then touched his lips with her own for a long moment before slipping quietly into the dark.
    The dream dissolved in sleep. And she was gone. . . .

    *
    Hawksworth was suddenly awake. The chill of early dawn penetrated his face and hands, and his hair sparkled with light jewels of dew. His leather couch was moist and glistening, while the pale sky above was blocked by a tapestried canopy. Only in the east, above the white railing of the rooftop, could he see the glitter of a waning Venus, her brief reign soon to dissolve in the red wash of early sun. He looked about his white brick enclosure and saw only a light wooden door leading into a second-floor apartment.
    He had no sooner drawn himself up to inhale the flower- scented dawn than two smiling men were standing over him, bowing. Both wore turbans, pastel-colored jackets, and a white wrap about their lower torso. Squinting into their eyes, Hawksworth remembered them from the evening before. They had brought the basin of water in which he had first washed.
    As he pulled the embroidered coverlet closer about him he noticed a strange numbness in his body. And his mind ached as he tried to remember what precisely had happened.
    There was a game on horseback with the governor, and then a banquet, with an argument in which Mukarrab Khan threatened to betray us to the Portugals, a curious evening of music. And then dreams . . .
    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 massaging 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 massaged 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