The Moghul

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 massaged 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. Damn 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 scraped 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 fashion back home, he thought, if I ever get back. Beards are passing 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, damn 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 trimming 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 fashion.
    Hawksworth examined the mirror again.
    Damn 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 scrape 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 shells. 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 shirt, 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