A Feast In Exile

Night had fallen; the village of mud huts was silent under the wheeling stars and the sound of the river was muted as if it, too, slept. In the community barn, Sanat Ji Mani awoke gradually, hunger making him groggy, the scent of animals filling his nostrils. He sat up and brushed the straw from his hair as a nanny-goat turned to look at him in mild curiosity. His wallet was still on his belt and his sack of medicaments and supplies lay at his feet, the strap slightly frayed where the goats had nibbled on it. He got to his feet, trying to piece together the events of the day after their arrival in the village: Djerat had departed in the early afternoon in a state of outrage; he had retired to this stall in the barn while Tulsi busied herself making a pack she could carry on her back. This recollection brought him fully awake. "Tulsi?" he called out softly, half-anticipating silence for an answer.

In the stall opposite, something moved in the straw, and then she sat up and yawned. "Is it late?"

"Not particularly," he replied. "We have most of the night left to us." He looked around the barn, taking stock of their situation. "The gate is barred, I suppose."

"It is," she answered. "But there is a litch-gate on the far side of the village, away from the river. It is not barred. I checked it this afternoon, while you were resting."

"Did the villagers know you found it?" Sanat Ji Mani asked, attempting to assess the use of her discovery.

"No; I made a tour of all the streets, tumbling for them," she said, a hint of pride about her.

Sanat Ji Mani regarded her steadily, the dark no hindrance to his sight. "You are tired. You were busy for a long time today."

"Not so much as you might think. I lay down with the villagers for the heat of the day, and I retired at sunset. I will be able to go some distance before I am exhausted." She stretched and stood up. "I made the pack."

"Very good," he approved.

"I also bargained for two tanned hides and a knife. I thought we would need them, for clothing and shoes." She paused, as if uncertain how to go on. "I took another gold coin from your wallet."

"Very good," he repeated.

Tulsi sighed her relief. "With Djerat gone, I thought you would not mind."

"I would not mind had she been here," Sanat Ji Mani said gently.

"But she is gone," said Tulsi, a forlorn note in her words.

"As she said she would do," Sanat Ji Mani added.

"I know." Tulsi swallowed audibly.

"Do you miss her: of course you do," Sanat Ji Mani said. "How could you not."

"I suppose I do," she said reluctantly. "But I do not want to go back to Timur-i's army. Had you not asked me to stay with you, I would still not have gone back."

Sanat Ji Mani took a halting step toward her. "I hope one day you will tell me why."

"One day I will," she said, glancing toward the door of the barn. "We can get out without trouble. I checked that, too."

"Very good," Sanat Ji Mani said again.

One of the goats bleated; the others in the barn raised their heads from their low-set mangers, ears moving, alert to anything.

"Someone is coming," said Sanat Ji Mani, his keen hearing having caught the approaching tread. "One man, I think."

"Then we should be going," said Tulsi, leaving her stall and going toward the door. "I put the hides in the pack, and a small skin of water. You have your sack of medicaments, and your wallet. We need not linger."

"I regret I cannot run," said Sanat Ji Mani, doing his best to follow after her without making too much noise.

"So do I," said Tulsi, no hint of distress in her voice. "If Djerat had left the farrier's tools, you might have something to fight with."

"She has mules to care for," Sanat Ji Mani reminded her.

"Still, it would have been useful to have one of them." She was at the door, prepared to open it; she waited. "I will take him off-guard," she whispered.

"Good idea," Sanat Ji Mani approved as he limped toward the door, his sack slung over his shoulder.

She made a gesture of determination, and prepared to shove the door hard as soon as it was touched from the other side; she rested her pack against her leg so she would not be hampered in her movements by its weight, and readied herself to throw the man off-guard. The man on the other side of the door stood still, something jingling as he prepared to enter the barn; Tulsi took a deep breath and shoved the door outward with all of her strength. The man fell back, groaning a little as he landed.

Sanat Ji Mani moved as quickly as he could, going to the supine villager, prepared to knock him unconscious. "He is carrying chains," he whispered to Tulsi.

"So they are slavers or keep travelers for ransom," she said in an undervoice. "See that he cannot follow us."

"I will," said Sanat Ji Mani, and dragged the man a short way around the end of the barn, then secured him with his own chains. "Your friends will find you in the morning," he said softly to the man, who had begun to struggle against the chains. "It will be easier if you lie still." Then he reached down and pressed his fingers against the man's neck, holding them in place until the man fainted. Straightening up, Sanat Ji Mani returned to Tulsi. "Where is the litch-gate?"

"At the far end of the village. Follow me." She started off between two of the houses.

Sanat Ji Mani did his best to keep up with her, moving along as quickly as he could, trying not to drag his stapled foot. Neither of them spoke until they reached the narrow wooden gate. "What lies beyond?" he said in an undervoice.

"Fields and a narrow path. At the edge of the fields there is a road, leading to the south." She paused. "I do not know where it leads."

"Then we will find out," said Sanat Ji Mani, standing aside so Tulsi could pull the gate open. He waited while she slipped through, then went after her, tugging the gate closed behind him. "Clever. No one can get through there with any animal larger than a goat."

"No doubt they knew that," Tulsi said, still keeping her voice low. "They force their visitors to abandon their goods and teams to leave, or be taken prisoner." She set out at a moderate pace so that Sanat Ji Mani could keep pace with her. "Do you think they will follow us?"

"It is possible but unlikely. I doubt the fellow we caught at the barn will come to his senses until midnight, and by then we will have gone some distance: two leagues at least." This guess was optimistic and he knew it.

"However far a league is," said Tulsi.

"A bit more than a Chinese li over flat ground," said Sanat Ji Mani. "Two Roman leagues are about six thousand paces." He hitched the strap of his sack to a better-balanced place on his shoulder, then did his best to even out his walking; he was acutely aware that by morning his legs and back would ache from the effort he was making, but he kept up his genial demeanor. "Once we turn to the south we will quickly be well beyond Timur-i's reach: he is bound northward."

"So he is," Tulsi said, holding the front straps of her pack with both hands. "And why should he bother about either one of us?"

"Why indeed," Sanat Ji Mani said, staring off into the night; he could hear the cries of animals in the brush beyond the fields and he paid close attention to them.

"Is anything hunting us?" Tulsi asked, aware of what he was doing. "Are there animals tracking us?"

"I do not think so; not yet. We are too close to the village for any of the wild beasts to come after us." He wanted to pick up the pace but knew it would only serve to exhaust him sooner. "If there is anything to fear, I will tell you."

"I am grateful," she said, and fell silent as they continued along the narrow track toward the road, which proved to be dry and deeply rutted. "I think farmers use this road," she said. "Cart wheels and many kinds of hooves." She pointed to the uneven surface.

"So it seems," Sanat Ji Mani agreed, worried what trying to drag Timur-i's stirrup over this puckered road would demand of him.

"You might do better keeping to the verge," Tulsi suggested. "I will walk there as well."

Sanat Ji Mani made a gesture of concession. "You are right; trying to walk on the road would be grueling."

Tulsi made her way to the far side of the road and onto the dusty shoulder. "This is wide enough."

"Yes," he said, and stumbled over the furrows to join her. "Do you want to lead, or shall I?"

"I am faster, but you see better," she said. "You can lead for a while."

Sanat Ji Mani stepped around her. "If I lag, tell me."

"If it bothers me I will," Tusli said, and worked the stopper from the water-skin. "Do you want any?"

"I will drink later," he told her, peering ahead. "The road curves around to the east some distance ahead, at the base of that line of hills."

"Do you think we will reach it by dawn?" She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"It is possible," he said, trying to estimate the distance. "Ask me again at midnight and I will have a better estimate to give you."

"All right; I will," said Tulsi, prepared to wait until they had covered more distance. "We do not want to be caught in the open when the sun rises."

"No, we do not," he agreed, wondering what else she might have noticed about him.

"Would you be willing to hunt before you sleep? I can cook a fowl over a fire as well as anyone; I lack a knife, but I will make do." She kept her full concentration on the narrow shoulder of the road, staying four paces behind him.

"I have medicinal tools in my sack that will serve as knives; I will give you one," he said. "I will hunt before dawn."

"Good." She fell silent again, until they had gone half a league farther along the road; her breath was steady and her pace did not flag. "Timur-i had my parents killed. He made his army watch, and all his jugglers and tumblers as well. He thought my father was training a bear to attack him."

"And was he?" Sanat Ji Mani asked in a neutral voice, aware she was lying.

"No. It is no easy thing to make a bear attack a certain person. Oh, my father could have done it, given enough time and access to Timur-i's clothing, but he had neither. He would not have done such a thing, in any case, for Timur-i gave him a good living. But Timur-i sees enemies everywhere." Tulsi took a deep breath. "He had my mother killed with my father because she was his wife. He had no other reason. They did not die quickly. Timur-i watched it all, smiling. I will never forget how he smiled."

Sanat Ji Mani wanted to offer Tulsi comfort but was aware she wanted none, that she had chosen this time to tell him so that he would not console her. He considered his next remark carefully. "How old were you?"

"Nine or ten," she answered. "I was kept on because I am a good tumbler and acrobat; I had no brothers, and a girl is no threat at all."

Visions of Tishtry and Olivia, of Nicoris, of Csimenae, of Gynethe Mehaut, of Ranegonda, of Heugenet went through Sanat Ji Mani's memories; all of them were capable, accomplished women, brave and determined, yet Timur-i would consider them insignificant because they lacked brothers, if not while living, in his life. He tried to find the right words to encourage her. "Then Timur-i is blind."

Tulsi stopped walking for a moment; then a spurt of laugher erupted from her. "Yes. He is blind." She began moving again, lengthening her stride to catch up with Sanat Ji Mani.

By midnight they had gone farther than Sanat Ji Mani had supposed they could; he knew he was tiring rapidly in spite of the strength the night lent him. He looked toward the hills and estimated they were four leagues away-too far to reach in one night. "We will need to look for shelter before dawn. I will hunt and you can have what I snare. If there is shelter from the sun, I will do well enough," he said, meaning the discomfort would be tolerable.

"A solid roof would be best, would it not?" Tulsi asked. "You would rest better completely out of the sun?"

"Yes, but that may not be possible," he told her, looking ahead along the road for anything that might provide them protection from the sun.

"You read the stars, I think," she said carefully. "You will know when we must stop walking and prepare for the daylight."

"I know something of the night-sky," he agreed. "I will not let us be caught in the open at sunrise." He heard the distant bray of an ass, and for an instant he missed Caesar, the shaggy donkey who had accompanied him through Plague-stricken France and in his travels for the next twenty years. How useful Caesar would be just now! He chuckled sadly and put the memory from his mind.

Tulsi cocked her head. "You find the coming of dawn amusing?"

"No," he said quietly. "I heard the donkey and wished we had one."

"Do you want to steal one?" Tulsi asked without any hint of condemnation.

"No. I do not want to draw any more attention to us than we must." Sanat Ji Mani peered off to the left. "There is another village that way."

"Shall we go near it?" Tulsi asked.

"No; I want you to step off the road and wait a bit." He was aware of her concern and went on, "I hope I can find a chicken or some other bird you can roast in the morning. Birds should be easier to catch near a village than in the fields."

"Do you think so?" Tulsi was still uncertain.

Sanat Ji Mani took his sack from his shoulder and turned toward her. "Keep this by you; it will hamper my hunting, and the stirrup is trouble enough."

This reassured her. She took the sack and held it tightly. "I will wait for you."

"Listen closely. If you hear anything that tells you I am in trouble, continue down the road, and remain on it. I will find you as soon as I can." He did not want to add to her apprehension, but he did not want to put her in danger on his account. "If the road divides, take the branch leading south. That way you can travel on, and I will not lose you."

"All right," she said nervously.

Sanat Ji Mani looked down into her face. "I will not leave you to wander these roads alone, Tulsi Kil: believe this."

"I am trying," she responded with an unsteady attempt at a smile.

"Very good," he approved, and stepped off the road into the scrub that lined its path; the growth was not too dense and he could make his way through it without much difficulty, although he twice caught his stirrup on a tangle of roots and had to struggle to keep from falling. He reached the edge of the village a short while later and stayed in the cover of the brush as he tried to get the lay of the land around the rough wooden stockade that surrounded the small houses. Such a small and isolated place would probably not have a night-watchman: the villagers would rely on their animals to warn them of approaching danger. He saw a small pond; it smelled of ducks and other waterbirds. These would be his targets if only he could keep from alarming them; they would quack and honk and screech if disturbed. From inside the walls of the village came a sudden barking of three dogs; the birds sleeping around the pond responded with the uneasy sounds of disrupted rest. Goats and sheep bleated, and from the undergrowth beyond the village, rustling branches and a high, guttural cough announced the presence of a leopard cat, or a fishing cat; both these animals were fierce fighters but generally shy of people, and both were smaller than leopards or tigers. Sanat Ji Mani remained where he was, watching to see if a striped feline head would emerge from the brush. The cat coughed again and the dogs renewed their barking.

Taking advantage of this ruckus, Sanat Ji Mani went to the edge of the pond, and was met by a flurry of wings as ducks, egrets, geese, and cranes strove to take flight. He made a determined snatch at the nearest large bird and succeeded in catching a Siberian goose. The bird honked and battered its wings, trying to snake its head around to peck at its captor's eyes; Sanat Ji Mani held on until he could take what he needed from the irate bird. When he was done, he spat feathers out of his mouth and broke the bird's neck; the loss of the goose would be attributed to the hunting cat and would not cause anyone in the village to suspect his theft. At least, he told himself, the goose would provide Tulsi two good meals: that was a relief.

"I heard noises," she said as he came up to her beside the road and handed her the goose.

"I was not the only cause," he said.

"A goose," she approved. "Good-sized, too."

"I will help you pluck it when we find a place to remain for the day," he said.

"I will flay it; then there is no need to waste time plucking, if you have a knife I might use. I know there is one in your medicinal supplies," said Tulsi, then lowered her eyes, abashed at her temerity. "I will look for herbs to rub on the flesh."

"As will I," said Sanat Ji Mani. He hoped to find shelter soon, for carrying this newly dead bird would attract cats and jackals; he did not want to have to fight off such animals. "You may have one of my knives," he told her as he took his sack from her. "I will give it to you now."

"Do you think we will find shelter before first light?" she asked as she took the little knife he proffered.

"If we are not too particular about it," he answered, watching her begin to cut the skin away from the bird's neck. "A hut, a cave, a place we will be protected."

"Yes," Tulsi agreed. "You see better in the dark than I do. You will know the place before I do. If you will tell me where to look, I can-" She stopped, her whole body attuned to listening. "I thought I heard-"

Sanat Ji Mani's keen hearing picked up a flurry of activity from the pond. "It's not after us. I think it is leopard cat: something about that size was stalking the birds when I caught the goose. It must have found a meal."

"I will drop the skin and the guts as soon as I am done," she said.

"Throw them as far as you can. You do not want the scent leading a hunter to us." His voice was low, as if he did not want to be overheard.

Tulsi relaxed and resumed walking. "Do you know where we are going?"

"Away from Timur-i; eventually I would like to reach Chaul on the west coast and cross the Arabian Sea." The prospect of ending the discomfort of this journey with many miserable days in the hold of a ship was daunting, but he did not flinch at the anticipated wretchedness; he would be leaving danger behind, and that more than compensated for what he would have to endure.

"Then you are going to leave?" Tulsi asked in a small voice.

"Yes. You may come with me, if you like," said Sanat Ji Mani.

"I may; I will think about it," said Tulsi.

"Pick up kindling as we go. We will have need of it," he added. "I will find fuel for us."

Toward the end of the night as they reached a rolling series of hillocks, Sanat Ji Mani found the ruins of what had once been some manner of fortress or guard-post. Most of its stones were broken and worn, but there was a cellar beneath the scattered flagging of the inner courtyard, and they levered a few of the paving-stones aside so they could go down into it, careful in where they walked, for snakes and spiders often occupied such abandoned places.

"I do not smell anything larger, not even bats," said Sanat Ji Mani as he went unsteadily down the narrow steps.

"Is that good?" Tulsi remained in the opening they had made; she had a fair amount of dry twigs and leaves in the skirt of the short gauze caftan she wore, more than enough to get a fire going once they chose the place. The goose lay beneath the kindling, its skin, feathers, and innards neatly removed while they walked; it was a skill she had learned long ago, traveling with Timur-i's army, for no one stopped the march for so minor a thing as food preparation. Tulsi kept the slender little knife Sanat Ji Mani had provided her for the task.

"It may be. Leave a little hole in the stones when you come down; otherwise you and I will be choked on the smoke from your cooking fire." Sanat Ji Mani looked around the cellar and saw a crude wallcarving of Yama, the Lord of the Dead. Dust had drifted into the cellar and eddied against the walls; there was no sign that the cellar had been used to hold bodies-not so much as a knuckle-bone protruded from the dust, no footprint marred it.

"What is it?" Tulsi hesitated, aware he had seen something.

"A carving, nothing more." He put down the small dry branches he had been carrying. "I think we will be safe here."

"Good," she said. "I am worn out. How did you keep walking?"

"I had no wish to remain in the sun another day." He thought of the road outside of Baghdad, and did his best not to shudder. "This is large enough to be comfortable and small enough to be safe. Bring me your kindling and we'll have a fire soon enough."

"Will the smoke attract attention?" Tulsi asked as she came down into the cellar, her free hand extended in front of her so she could feel her way in the dark; her hand touched him.

"It may, and it may not." Sanat Ji Mani dropped down onto his knees. "Give me the kindling." He took his flint-and-steel from his wallet and prepared to start their fire. "I am going to pile up the dust; it will absorb the grease from cooking."

"There is a lot of fat on a goose," Tulsi agreed, bending over to watch; the spark caught and brightened, giving a wavering illumination to their confines. "Yama," she said as she recognized the god on the wall. "Is this his temple, do you think?"

"No. There are no signs of it," Sanat Ji Mani said distantly as he nursed the fire into life. "It may be this was a last retreat position, where death was all that was left." He added the first branch to the fire and was pleased to see it catch quickly. "Come. You need to prepare a skewer for your goose."

Tulsi squatted down beside him. "I already have." She held up a straight stick about the length of her forearm. "I will manage from here."

"Very good." He glanced up at the narrow opening where the smoke was drifting; beyond the stones the sky was beginning to pale. "Just in time," he said, more to himself than to Tulsi.

"Can we rest here for a day?" she asked as she pushed the stick through the goose.

"The day after would be a better day to rest," he said. "We will be farther away from the ford, and therefore harder to find if Timur-i should decide to look for us." He paused. "And there is something I must do: I will have to rest at least two days after I do it."

She heard the tentative note in his voice; she looked around. "What is it?"

"I must remove this staple from my foot," he said as calmly as he could. "I cannot continue with it in place."

"Can you do that?" She was so startled she almost dropped the goose into the fire.

"Yes," he said flatly. "I can remove the staple. But once I do, I will have to rest-"

"Are you sure you can do it? It will take strength, and there will be pain." Her expression grew more apprehensive.

"I am aware of that," Sanat Ji Mani said as gently as he could.

Tulsi collected herself. "There will be blood, and festering. You will need a long time before you can walk."

"Those of my blood do not fester," said Sanat Ji Mani, "but we heal very, very slowly. I will be able to travel, but I will limp for some time, probably as badly as Timur-i limps." He attempted a smile to hearten her.

"But for two days you will need rest," she said, her attention more on the goose than on him, for the first, fragrant sizzle fired her hunger.

"Yes, two days at least; and darkness," he said.

After a long moment during which the tips of the goose's wings began to char, she said, "And blood."

Text of a letter from Rishi Harata Medha, priest of Shiva at Delhi, to Sultan Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughluq; carried by mendicants.

To the Sultan of Delhi, Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughluq, for whom the favor of his god Allah is given in misfortune, the greetings of Rishi Harata Medha, priest of Shiva in your city of Delhi.

The puppet of Timur-i Lenkh who is said to rule here has continued to impose the rule of plunder that brought this mighty city low three months since. The people of this city suffer many cruelties and deprivations on account of this man. You would not believe the devastation wrought here, or the afflictions of your people, for they are almost beyond the capacity of words to describe.

Of the many people who lived here, only one in five remains, and in such abject misery that many wish for death to end their woe. The wells have been contaminated by the men of Timur-i, who threw severed limbs and heads into the wells during their destruction, so that now all the water is foul, but for the river water, and it is suspect, for the soldiers who remain here-and there are about a thousand of them-have made their latrines upstream so that we cannot rely on the river for wholesome water, either. When half the garrison leaves, which it is said they will do when the rains come, the river may be kinder to us. As it is, the few of us remaining here have had to send our two surviving slaves out of the city to the wells in the east, which requires crossing the river and carrying barrels a long distance. This is an onerous burden now, but when the rains come and the river rises, it will be impossible.

The soldiers regularly make fires of the wrecked buildings in the city, and often the fires spread. In the last month, over a hundred sacked houses have been burned to the ground, and more will be burned before the next full moon. Which they shall be we do not know, but eventually all will be claimed by fire. When there is nothing more to burn, I cannot imagine what these fell men will do. Timur-i's sycophant who claims to rule here has ordered that stone buildings are to be demolished in order to build up the walls and other fortifications of the city, and so what fire does not consume, the soldiers will bring to ruin another way. Soon Delhi will be nothing but rubble and ashes, unwanted by any ruler, and inhabited only by rats and vultures.

Let no one say the people remaining here lack courage: everywhere those who have survived try to go about their lives as best they can, knowing that at any instant, the soldiers of Timur-i might ride them down in the streets, steal all of what little they have left, or any number of other hideous things. Those who can take what they can salvage and slip away in the night, hoping they are not caught escaping, for then their fate is appalling: they are tied by arms and legs between trees and the archers use them for target practice; what becomes of their women-for there are still a few women in Delhi-is so loathsome that only Kali would welcome such offerings.

I do not know how much longer I will be able to report to you; my temple is of stone and may soon be taken down for repairing the breaches in the walls. When that happens, I, too, will join those streaming out from Delhi to wander the roads, begging for bread and water. Perhaps your Allah has routed our Gods in this place and is exacting a high price for our obduracy; Gods may be cruel but they cannot be unjust, or so your religion has taught. Since I can see no probity in the rulings meted out to us, I must believe that Shiva has allowed this to happen, and that if we lose this temple, we will find another away from this city. Until that time, I will do my utmost to report to you as often as I am able, so that you will know what has become of your once-glorious city now that its enemies have brought it low.

Rishi Harata Medha

priest of Shiva at Delhi