"How did such a murderous custom begin?" Hawksworth's eyes were seared now from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh. "It's unworthy of humanity."
"We believe aristocratic Rajput women have always wished to do it. To honor their brave warriors. The Moghul has tried to stop it, however. He claims it began only a few centuries ago, when a Rajput raja suspected the women in his palace were trying to poison him and his ministers. Some believe the raja decreed that custom as protection for his own life, and then others followed. But I don't think that's true. I believe women in India have always done it, from ancient times. But what does it matter when it began. Now all rani, the wives of rajas, follow their husbands in death, and consider it a great honor. Today it seems his other women also insisted on joining her. I think it was against her wishes. She did not want to share her moment of glory. Sati is a noble custom, Captain Hawksworth, part of that Rajput strength of character wanting in other races."
A hand seized Hawksworth's arm roughly and jerked him back through the crowd, a sea of eyes burning with contempt. Amid the drifting smoke he caught a glimpse of the bullock carts of the caravan, lined along the far end of the road leading into the fortress. The drivers were nowhere to be seen, but near the carts were cattle sheds for the bullocks.
If they can send innocent women to their death, life means nothing here. They'll kill us for sure.
He turned to Vasant Rao, whose face showed no trace of fear. The Rajput seemed oblivious to the smell of death as smoke from the fire engulfed the palms that lined the village roads. They were approaching the porch of the great house where the head of the dynasty had lived.
Two guards shoved Hawksworth roughly to his knees. He looked up to see, standing on the porch of the house, the young man who had tossed the torch into the pit. He began speaking to them, in the tones of an announcement.
"He's the son of the man you killed. He has claimed leadership of the dynasty, and calls himself Raj Singh." Vasant Rao translated rapidly, as the man continued speaking. "He says that tomorrow there will be an eclipse of the sun here. It is predicted in the Panjika, the Hindu manual of astrology. His father, the leader of this dynasty of the sun, has died, and tomorrow the sun will die also for a time. The Brahmins have said it is fitting that you die with it. For high castes in India the death of the sun is an evil time, a time when the two great powers of the sky are in conflict. On the day of an eclipse no fires are lit in our homes. Food is discarded and all open earthenware pots are smashed. No one who wears the sacred thread of the twice-born can be out of doors during an eclipse. The Brahmin astrologers have judged it is the proper time for you to pay for your cowardly act. You will be left on a pike to die in the center of the square."
Hawksworth drew himself up, his eyes still smarting from
the smoke, and tried to fix the man's eyes. Then he spoke, in a voice he hoped would carry to all the waiting crowd.
"Tell him his Brahmin astrologers know not the truth, neither past nor future." Hawksworth forced himself to still the tremble in his voice. "There will be no eclipse tomorrow. His Brahmins, who cannot foretell the great events in the heavens, should have no right to work their will on earth."