The Temple Dancer Read online

  St. Martin's Press

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE TEMPLE DANCER. Copyright © 2006 by John Speed. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. www.stmartins.com

  Map by Virginia Norey Design by Sarah Gubkin LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Speed, John. The temple dancer /John Speed.-1st ed. p. cm. ISBN-13: 978-0-312-32548-0 ISBN-10: 0-312-32548-7 1. India-History-1526-1765-Fiction. 2. Travelers-Fiction. I. Title. PS3619.P438T46 2006 813'.6-dc22 2005044422 First Edition: August 2006 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Jean, who inspired it:

  More eunuchs, and the Sultana unwrapped

  MAJOR CHARACTERS

  The Dasanas:

  LUCINDA DASANA A young Portuguese woman

  raised in Goa; heir to the

  Dasana fortune

  CARLOS DASANA Lucinda's uncle, manager of the

  Dasana trading interests in Goa

  GERALDO SILVEIRA A profligate cousin of the

  Dasanas, and a distant heir

  VICTORIO SOUZA Lucinda's maternal uncle,

  manager of the Dasana trading

  interests in Bijapur

  In the Caravan:

  JEBTHA DA GAMA A Portuguese settlement man,

  often called Deoga

  KURSHID PATHAN A burak of Bijapur, sometimes

  called Munna

  SLIPPER A eunuch

  MAYA A young temple dancer

  (devadasi), recently enslaved, a

  nautch girl

  In Goa:

  HELENE Lucinda's maid

  CARVALLO General secretary to the

  Dasanas

  ADOLFO Carlos Dasana's valet

  In Valpoi:

  FERNANDO ANALA A Christian trader. Also called

  Brother Fernando

  SILVIA ANALA His wife

  In Belgaum:

  LADY CHITRA Mistress of the Lake Palace,

  former concubine to the sultan

  of Bijapur

  LAKSHMI Chitra's companion, a child

  In Bijapur:

  SHAHJI General commander of

  Bijapur's armies

  WHISPER An old eunuch. The Royal

  Khaswajara (manager of the

  royal household)

  WALT KHAN The grand vizier, chief minister

  to the Sultana

  MOUSE A eunuch in service to Victorio

  Souza

  THE SULTANA Widow of the former sultan

  IBRAHIM ADIL The heir to the throne of

  Bijapur, a boy

  Others:

  GUNGAMA Maya's guru, thought to

  be drowned, now appearing

  in dreams

  BANDITS Of the Three-dot clan and of

  the Naga clan

  A CHEAP JEWELER In Bijapur

  SHAHEEN Pathan's housekeeper and

  steward

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  In India, all journeys change the traveler.

  This novel tells of a journey between Goa and Bijapur, a journey I made myself a few years ago. Shepherds still walk the old roads through Sansagar Pass. The golden bell of Santa Catarina still rings. Fullers still spread the bright silks of Belgaum along the lakeshore. Beneath the great dome of the Gol Gombaz, schoolchildren play in the whisper gallery.

  But in the course of three centuries, much has been lost. To build their navies, the Portuguese, Dutch, and English cut down the great teak forests that dominated the Deccan Plateau. That changed the weather: Gokak Falls no longer roars. The steps of the old temples around Lake Belgaum now lead to dry ground instead of water. Instead of palaces, only piles of stone remain.

  This story is part of a larger epic that took more than twenty years to write-the history of the final years of the Mogul Empire and the rise of the Marathis under the highwayman Shivaji. The first volume of that epic topped 2,400 manuscipt pages. With the help of my agent, jean Naggar, and the skillful efforts of Maureen Baron, I managed to pare that down to about 800.

  But it broke my heart! Da Gama, Lucinda, Pathan, Slipper, and Mouse called to me from the discarded pages. Happily, jean suggested a framework for that story, and encouraged me to write it as a separate book, and St. Martin's Press agreed to publish it as an introduction to the larger epic.

  Researching this novel proved difficult. Source documents on the Moguls and Marathis abound-victors love writing history. But the losers remain silent-and by 1657, Portuguese India had been crushed, and Bijapur was failing. No one writes tales of their defeat.

  I based my picture of Bijapur on Mogul records that were clearly biased. Lacking firsthand accounts of Goan society, I sought help from transport records, which were carefully preserved and provided knowledge of living conditions in 1657. My firsthand examination of period artifacts and architecture led to many aspects of the way I depict Portuguese and Bijapuri culture.

  I based Lucinda's clothing on the styles of Lisbon society in 1648-50, since it would take a few years for fashion to reach Goa. The dress and deportment of other characters were inspired by contemporary paintings, and by source descriptions of Portuguese traders at the Mogul court.

  The use of cosmetic arsenic as a murder weapon was inspired by a series of killings in the English colony of Jamestown a few years before the time of this story. The Flying Palace was inspired by a 1712 woodcut in an exhibit at the Berlin Dahlem gallery.

  The prosecution of the Pepper Wars is described in an excellent monograph by Alfons van der Kraan: A Baptism of Fire: The Van Goens Mission to Ceylon and India, 1653-54. Interested readers may also enjoy the fascinating Sufis of Bijapur, 1300-1700.• Social Roles of Sufis in Medieval India by Richard Maxwell.

  My descriptions of Maya's dancing may not square with current versions of "Bharatnatayam," but in fact that school of dance is of rather recent origin-the British wiped out Indian dance, and its current "classic" form is only a reconstruction based on sculptures and the written word. There is reason to believe that dance in 1657 was far more flamboyant than its staid reconstruction.

  I have freely included some historic personages in this story, notably the Sultana, Wali Khan, and Shahji. The other characters are entirely fictional.

  A novel such as this cannot be written without help. My writing coach, Michael Wolf, the greatest listener I have ever found, helped me to realize the themes that drive my tale, and my fellow authors at his writer's workshops, with their demanding critiques, inspired me to do my very best. My driver, guide, and friend, Ali Akbar, showed me his India, a magical and difficult place most westerners never see, and opened the doors of mystic Islam; I hope he will forgive me for basing Pathan on him. To them all I extend my totally inadequate thanks.

  My wife, Barbara, gave me the greatest gifts of all. I am in awe of her unflagging confidence and insightful comments. Most important, she creates in this turbulent world a home of beauty and serenity-a creation that inspired the Lake Palace of Belgaum. Ultimately this book would not have existed without her.

  Part One

  The Howdah

  PORTUGUESE CANTONMENT

  Goa, India

  1657

  Satisfied that her face looked perfect, Lucinda Teresa Emilia Dasana dipped a pheasant's tail feather into a crystal vial and touched a milky drop of belladonna to the corner of each eye. "Aya," she said, dabbing at a tear before it stained her powdered c
heck, "I can't find my arsenico."

  Across the room, her maid folded Lucinda's dressing gown. "It's all gone, my bebe. I meant to tell you."

  Lucinda, blinking as the belladonna blurred her eyes, bit her bottom lip in frustration. Then she smiled patiently at her maid, not knowing that one of her front teeth was speckled with vermilion. "Aya, the box was right here. Where have you hidden it?"

  The maid, Helene, as if unaware that Lucinda could not see, shook her head and kept on folding. "You should not be using that terrible paste, little one. It is very bad for you. Better that it's gone."

  "I'm not your little one anymore. I'm a woman. A lady. And you are my maid now, no longer my nurse. So bring me my arsenico," Lucinda said.

  Helene, whose name before she became a Christian had been Ambalika, muttered something in Hindi. "I am not a bitch in heat," Lucinda whispered angrily. "And I have said, we will speak only Portuguese. Now bring it."

  Helene looked suddenly very old. Lucinda, her eyes blurred by belladonna, did not see this change, but she heard Helene's weary sigh. Lucinda's heart ached, but she remembered herself, and her new station in the world, and said nothing. Helene, meanwhile, reached beneath the feather mattress and brought out a tiny silver box. "Don't use too much, please," Helene said in Portuguese.

  "I'll use what I want," Lucinda answered, and took such a large pinch of the red paste that Helene gasped. Having gotten the effect she wanted, however, Lucinda only touched a little to her tongue. "There."

  "You shouldn't take this poison. If your mother were here! That red stuff only will make you sick and you are so beautiful without it."

  "You only say that because you love me. I need it-I must not be seen with dark skin."

  "What's wrong with dark skin?"

  Lucinda lowered her eyes, regretting her words, for of course Helene was dark as shadow. "I'm sorry, dear one," Lucinda said in Hindi, and though Lucinda could not see it, Helene smiled. "You know my cousin has just come from Macao. I haven't seen him in years," she went on in Portuguese. "I must look my best. It's fashionable to be pale. All the Lisbon ladies use arsenico these days."

  Helene snorted. "So they are pale, yes. But they are not pretty, not like my bebe. Why all this fuss over a cousin? What would your mother say, our lady rest her soul? You are pledged! If your father were alive ..."

  But Lucinda had stopped paying attention. Through the window that looked to the sea, a salt breeze carried the sounds of Goa: the cries of street merchants in Hindi and Portuguese, the blare of gongs and drums from a nearby Shiva temple, and on top of all, the golden cathedral bell of Santa Catarina, tolling the hour.

  The breeze whispered through Lucinda's upswept hair. She swirled a stiff silk shawl over her shoulders. "How do I look?"

  Too young, thought Helene. Too young to wear a corset laced so tight, or a bodice cut so low. Oh, what will people think? The pupils of Lucinda's eyes, now huge from belladonna, glistened: dark, inviting, like hidden pools lit by moonlight. "I suppose you look all right," Helene said at last.

  But Lucinda had not waited. Already she had found the door, already reached the stairs to her uncle's office. Until her father's death the year before, the halls had glowed, bathed in lamplight. But the arrival of Uncle Carlos changed all that. He hated waste; he would stamp through the halls, snuffing out candles with his fingertips. "Thrift!" he'd shout to anyone in earshot. "Economy!" But in the dimness, Lucinda's deliciously dilated eyes could see perfectly. Still, she edged forward with one hand pressed against the wood-paneled walls, for the arsenico was making her feel light-headed.

  Carlos Dasana glared across his table, awash with papers, and wagged a heavy finger at his young relation. "Don't you realize the trouble you are in?"

  Geraldo Silveira shifted in the hard wooden scat-perhaps to adjust his coat, perhaps to hide the amusement in his eyes. His long fingers played with the lace cuffs of his shirt. "I apologize, Tio Carlos ..

  "Don't insult me with your apologies! You killed a man, Aldo! You can't apologize for murder! Dueling in the streets! They hang men for this!" Carlos pounded on the heavy wooden table so hard that a pile of papers bounced into the air. "And the husband you killed was your own cousin!"

  "I only found that out after, Tio. I apolog..."

  "For the love of God, hold your tongue! If it had not been for me, Aldo, you'd be locked in the stocks, getting your feet roasted. And then to Lisbon and the gallows, that's what. You owe me a debt!"

  Carlos drummed his fingers on the dark wood table and considered the young man. "You're too handsome. You've been spoiled. All mothers spoil their children, but my cousin went too far, rest her soul. And your useless father ..."

  "He was a good man, Tio." Geraldo's eyes flashed, but he kept his voice calm. "You can't blame him."

  "Did I ask your opinion? I'll blame who I wish! Your father was a rounder and a fool. Like you, too handsome for his own good. Learn from his mistakes, Aldo." The older man stopped glaring at the youth and tugged his mustache. "But I blame myself as well. I have indulged you too much. I should have..."

  Carlos Dasana stopped short, rubbed his brow with his heavy fingers, and sighed. "You can't live like you have no future, Aldo! Keep your fonte in your pants. You can't bed every woman you see just because you get a tingle. Not if they're married, for the love of the Virgin! Those you keep your hands off! Otherwise people end up dead!"

  "With luck, only the husband, Tio."

  Carlos Dasana's eyes bulged, and a vein began to pulse across his forehead. Geraldo leaned forward, worried that he might have a fit, when Dasana burst out with a roaring laugh. "Only the husband, eh?" He struggled to frown. "Why not take a bayadere, for the love of the Virgin? They're cheap enough, and better than any wife, eh?"

  Geraldo leaned back and looked straight into the older man's eyes. "Where's the sport, Uncle?" His sharp face slowly opened into a sly grin.

  Ah, he's a Dasana, all right, Carlos thought. "Look here, Aldo, I've intervened on your behalf. You've been placed in my custody. Sent to Goa instead of to the gallows."

  Geraldo lowered his head. "Tio Carlos, I wish to thank you ..

  Carlos snorted. "Don't. Before you're done, you might wish for the gallows! To be frank, you couldn't have come to Goa at a worse time." He leaned back in his chair. "After twenty years of combat, the Pepper Wars are over, Aldo, and the blasted Dutch have won."

  "You can't be serious. Surely the Portuguse fleet ..."

  The old man sputtered. "The fleet? Have you looked in the harbor? Do you see a fleet anywhere? They're gone! Gone to Brazil! We've handed all Asia to the Dutch, but now, now we must do everything to save precious Brazil! Face facts, Aldo! Lisbon has abandoned us! Goa is lost! The Dutch have strangled us. Only a few dhows will even try to run that blockade."

  Carlos Dasana shook his head. "Our countrymen flee like rats. They take what they can carry and run, the cowards. Only a few hundred Portuguese remain in Goa. Even the goddammed priests have gone, most of them."

  Dasana hesitated, as if his next thoughts were too painful to voice. Geraldo seemed to sense this. He leaned across the table. "Come, Tio. I am not a child to be toyed with, nor did you bring me here from kindness. What do you need of me?"

  Carlos blinked and bit his lip. "You're right. I need someone I can trust. Someone of my blood. The Pepper Wars have wiped us out. The Dasanas are near ruin.

  It took a moment before Geraldo could reply. "I don't believe it!"

  "My brother, rest his soul, made a mess of things. I don't know if I can repair them. We're out of cash. We have goods, Lord yes! Factors full of goods. But the Dutch have us by the balls. We can't trade, Aldo, and without trade we're dying." Dasana leaned close to him, his voice now a harsh whisper. "How much do you know about the country of Bijapur?"

  "Those Muslim devils? Only that they have been our enemies for a hundred years. First those infidels surrendered Goa to us, and then they attacked us! They massacred our colonists, and they slaughtered our women.
. ."

  Dasana waved his hand. "That's in the past. Forgive and forget."

  "Tio Carlos!"

  "Enemies are a luxury for the rich, Aldo. We're broke. We'll take all the friends we can buy. Now, listen, Aldo, listen well. We have one chance to change things." Carlos glanced around the room, as though spies might be anywhere. "The sultan of Bijapur died about a year ago. His heir's only nine years old. Bijapur's gone mad. The widow queen, the Sultana, has come out of the harem to try to rule. It's unheard of ... a complete disasater. So now the Sultana has agreed to appoint a regent, and there lies all our hope." The older man arranged himself in his chair. "This is why I have brought you here. I have a job for you, Aldo."

  Geraldo sat up straight, eyes hooded and watchful. Carlos noted this, and continued: "The Dasanas have one final throw. If our man becomes regent, he'll give us a trade monopoly in Bijapur for eight years."

  "Our man? Who is our man?"

  "Wall Khan, the grand vizier of Bijapur." Carlos bit his lip. "He should get the regency. He should-but it won't be easy. He's got the Sultana to contend with, and she's a handful. And then there's the army-armies are always a problem-but this is even worse because the commander's a Hindi, and Hindis are unpredictable. Worst of all: eunuchs. The Khaswajara is a eunuch. He'll have all his brothers plotting for him. Even so, despite it all, Wall Khan will win. He should win. He must."

  "What have you done to persuade him, Tio Carlos? How have you brought him to our side?"

  "Do you think it was easy? Baksheesh. Bribing. There is no other way.... Wall Khan is too powerful to threaten. So it must be a bribe, and a great one. The man has refined tastes. The bribe must inspire him, not insult him." Carlos allowed himself a small smile. "We've managed to procure a certain item for him-something unique. Something he covets. Aye, something he covets more than life. A half a lakh of hun we paid-that's equivalent to forty thousand rials." Geraldo's eyes grew wide.