By the third day of Timur-i's occupation of Delhi, the air was sodden with the stench of rotting flesh: from the dead elephants, horses, and men beyond the city gates to the growing heaps of severed limbs and mangled torsos within, the city had become an abattoir, its streets slick with blood, and the sounds of shrieks and moans as constant as the sighing, stinking wind. The inhabitants all wore the dazed expression of the conquered while the soldiers of Timur-i bullied their way through the streets, making the most of their subjugation of the place.

The broad square in front of the Magistrates' Building at the rear of the palace was filled with more than a thousand people, each striving to comply with the orders issued to Delhi two days ago; most of them had been waiting for more than a day to be heard. Few of them spoke amongst one another, although occasionally someone would weep or pray. From time to time, Iksander Mawan and Josha Dar would make their way through the confusion in the square, searching for those the officers of Timur-i, or Timur-i himself, wished to see.

Sanat Ji Mani sat on the far side of the square in the protective shadow of the old Temple of Yama, which had been looted the day before and now stood empty of everything but insects and crows. He had seen Firuz Ihbal killed earlier that day: his crime, according to the executioner, was holding back wealth from Timur-i Lenkh; Firuz Ihbal's body had been hacked to bits and thrown onto the mound of mangled dead growing near the steps to the Magistrates' Building, the largest of five scattered about the city. Now he occupied his thoughts with various plans for escape, not yet satisfied that he could get out of the city without being summarily beheaded: that would be True Death for him as much as for any living man. He felt sickened by what he witnessed; he was no stranger to carnage, but this was more appalling than anything he had seen since the Plague-stricken cities of France, fifty years ago. Not even the butchery of Jenghiz Khan was as grisly as this massacre in its guise of legality. He found the memory of T'en Chih-Yu, dead at the hands of Jenghiz Khan's forces, haunted him as he waited for whatever experience was coming: he had learned to be patient over his long life, and now he was inclined to sit and give his attention to the sad, frightened mass before him; he was tempted to offer his assistance to a few of the most afflicted but knew this would only lead to demands from many others and would create more trouble than it eased.

It was mid-afternoon when Iksander Mawan approached the place where Sanat Ji Mani waited, and singled him out. "You. Foreigner. In black."

Sanat Ji Mani rose. "Yes?" He bowed slightly, feeling suddenly conspicuous in his fluted-linen Egyptian kalasiris.

"Come with me. Bring your supplies-those you carry in that bag, those you used to treat the Sultan's soldiers. There are questions you must answer. Do not try to avoid this. You will have to justify yourself, and failure to respond promptly will not help you." He snapped his fingers and indicated a spot in the air half a step behind him. "Keep close or you will be lost in the crowd and I will have to dispatch soldiers to find you."

"I will keep close," said Sanat Ji Mani, who had seen half-a-dozen men in the square die under the shimtares of Timur-i's soldiers since dawn came over the afflicted city.

"Very good," said Iksander Mawan, and set off through the thick of the waiting men, his flail held high as a sign of authority and an implied threat; Sanat Ji Mani ignored the weight of the sun as best he could and kept half a pace behind Iksander Mawan. He was certain that exposure to sunlight was the least of his trouble now.

The interior of the Magistrates' Building was worse than the square, the rotunda busy as an ants' nest, with men packed into it so tightly that there was hardly room to stand, let alone move through the crush. Although all doors were open, the air was stagnant, the sickening, sweetish odor of decomposition mixing with the more alliaceous smell of frightened men. Various slaves of the Magistrates' Building scurried about in an effort to complete their tasks in spite of the overwhelming number of waiting men.

"Come with me," Iksander Mawan shouted to Sanat Ji Mani, cocking his head toward the largest interior door.

"Yes," Sanat Ji Mani called back, so that Iksander Mawan could be sure he heard.

The door was flanked by eight of Timur-i's officers, each in the armor and color of his cadre, all armed with bows, lances, and shimtares, silent and ferocious. With them stood a magistrate, his demeanor as cowed as the officers' was grand. Iksander Mawan was motioned to go in; Sanat Ji Mani was searched for weapons, then allowed to enter the high-vaulted chamber beyond.

An ivory chair had been placed at the back of the room and on it sat an old man in gleaming armor; his features showed the heritage of his Turkish father and Mongol mother as well as the effects of a life lived on campaign. Sanat Ji Mani saw that the man's hair had been darkened with walnut-stain, and that around his face was a faint line of white; Timur-i Lenkh wanted to keep the illusion of youth as long as possible. His mouth was sensual and hard at once, and his eyes were flat as stones. His right foot turned inward; even through his elaborate boot Sanat Ji Mani could see that the foot was misshapen from an improperly healed injury. He carried a small ceremonial whip in his hand, which he twitched from time to time, much as a cat might lash its tail.

Two high-ranking soldiers stood behind him, shimtares drawn and ready, and next to them were two men from Delhi: Sanat Ji Mani recognized one of them as the scrawny spy who had watched Rustam Iniattir and him for several months. The other man was a magistrate; his eyes stared out of dark hollows and there was a bruise on the side of his forehead the size of a mango.

"On your face, foreigner," ordered the magistrate, his voice strident with fatigue. He did not bother to look at Sanat Ji Mani.

Sanat Ji Mani prostrated himself, his bag of medicaments and tools laid down ahead of him so that he would not be accused of concealing anything. The red-granite paving was cool under him, far less unpleasant than standing in the sun had been; he lay still while one of the two officers came and walked around him, nudging him once with his foot before returning to his place behind the throne.

"This is Sanat Ji Mani, a foreigner from the West. He has done business with the Parsi and contributed to the Sultan's coffers. He has no slighting report against him beyond his dealings with foreigners. As he is a foreigner himself, and has paid his taxes, this is not held to be a fault in him," said the magistrate in a flat delivery that gave no hint of approval or disapproval.

"You may rise," said the old man in the tongue of Persia.

Sanat Ji Mani got to his knees, lifting his bag as he did. "You are Timur-i Lenkh," he said in the same language.

"I am. And you are Sanat Ji Mani." He pointed to the sack. "Those are your medicines? And your tools?"

"Some of them," Sanat Ji Mani said carefully. "I have more at my house in the Street of Brass Lanterns."

Timur-i turned to Josha Dar. "You say he has cured the ill and saved those taken in fever? He has preserved the wounded?"

Josha Dar looked uncomfortable. "I have seen men he has treated live where they should have died."

"Does he speak true?" Timur-i demanded of Sanat Ji Mani. "I despise all liars-remember that as you answer."

"I have a degree of skill and can sometimes help men recover from sickness and injuries." Sanat Ji Mani looked directly at Timur-i. "Sometimes I cannot."

"It is as Allah Wills," said Timur-i, and glared at Sanat Ji Mani as if he expected to be contradicted.

"Yes; as Allah Wills," said Sanat Ji Mani.

"Then you are faithful to Islam?" said Timur-i, surprised.

"No, but I respect it," Sanat Ji Mani responded.

"You follow your foreign gods, because you are foreign. Yet Islam is for all men, and you must, in time, come to embrace it, as will all mankind," Timur-i declared, and accepted Sanat Ji Mani's nod as acknowledgment enough. "I am told you cared for the soldiers of Delhi, treating their hurts. Did you?"

"Yes; the deputies of the Sultan commanded my services: I would have offered them in any case." He wondered how long he would have to remain before this fierce old man; he dared not move.

"He spent days with the city's sick before you came to Delhi, Puissant Lord," Josha Dar volunteered. "I followed him more than once, and I saw him tend them, even the poorest. He did this without apparent coercion."

"A fine example," said Timur-i as if he meant it. "More men should do such good to others." He stared musingly at the far wall. "So the Sultan's deputies-treasonous dogs that they are-knew his skills and used them for their own ends."

"That was not all. They taxed him more than most," Josha Dar added smugly. "I saw them take bags of gold from his house."

"Wealth and compassion," marveled Timur-i sarcastically. "You must be a clever man, foreigner."

"I have striven to make my way in the world," Sanat Ji Mani said, "as an exile must."

"Ah," said Timur-i. "An exile. You came here of necessity."

"Delhi was a haven to me," said Sanat Ji Mani, making a gesture to show his gratitude. "I accepted the terms of the safety I found here, and I was glad to have it so." This was true as far as it went, he thought. "My native land is far away and in the hands of powerful men. What could I be but grateful to the Sultan and the city for what I have found here."

"Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughluq is Sultan no more. He forfeited Delhi when he left it. I will choose one worthy to hold this empire for me," said Timur-i bluntly.

"As Allah Wills," Josha Dar exclaimed, and saw Iksander Mawan wince.

Timur-i took this remark in good part. "I attune myself to Allah-the Glorious, All-Merciful-and I do His Will. He shows His Will in my victories." There were murmurs of agreement and adulation from those gathered around the ivory chair, and two of his officers shouted a terse salutation. "You see-my men know that I will uphold their faith; they are devoted to me in this world as they seek Paradise." This observation needed no more explication; Timur-i glared down at Sanat Ji Mani. "If you were to tend to my wounded, would you help them, or would you poison them and give them fevers?"

"It is my sworn duty to treat those I can without regard for who or what they are, and has been since I was taught by masters, many years ago," said Sanat Ji Mani, recalling his centuries in the Temple of Imhotep. "I cannot save all of them-no one can. But I can help most, if only to ease their passage from this life."

"How can you know that such ease is needed?" Timur-i fixed Sanat Ji Mani with an accusing stare. "Allah alone knows the hours of a man's life."

Sanat Ji Mani was not intimidated. "You have been in battle and seen men hurt past all cure," he said calmly. "Yet you know their injuries will bring hours or days of agony before the body finally surrenders the soul. Think of those with broken backs, or men with wounds to their bowels, or lungs. You cannot save them. I cannot save them. Not Allah Himself can save them for very long. All those with such injuries suffer hideous pain before they die. Many of them go mad with it. Those who have such hurts, I help lessen their pain for as long as my supplies and my skills permit me. If there is fever or infection, I have a sovereign remedy which can sometimes bring a cure. I can stitch up open wounds and set broken limbs. I can treat pulled tendons in man and beast, I can reseat bones in their rightful sockets, I can offer anodyne to anyone with pain." His voice remained low and steady.

"Then Josha Dar has spoken aright," said Timur-i, and glanced at the man with a look that said he had been spared again.

"I do not know what Josha Dar said to you," Sanat Ji Mani told Timur-i. "I know what I can do. I know also that there is a limit to all medicaments, and that the virtue of a cure for one is not always sufficient for another."

"Josha Dar has said many things. I have listened," said Timur-i, his tone ominous.

"I have spoken truth," Josha Dar insisted. "And you, Sanat Ji Mani, be glad I did, for otherwise you would be hacked to death like so many others."

"Then I must thank you," Sanat Ji Mani said ironically.

Timur-i nodded. "On your face," he ordered: Sanat Ji Mani obeyed, still holding on to his sack of supplies; he was under intense scrutiny by the Turkish-Mongol warlord, but his enigmatic gaze revealed nothing of his thoughts. Finally, Timur-i made a gesture. "He will do. Prepare him to travel. Have the smiths do it now, so he will have time to recover." He motioned to two of his officers. "He looks strong. Use a new sword, not an old one."

The two officers bowed deeply, then went and pulled Sanat Ji Mani to his feet. One of the men took hold of his bag. "We will keep this for you: you will have need of it."

"There may be more supplies at his house," Josha Dar said.

"Have them brought," Timur-i ordered. "Take them to the infirmary against his coming."

Sanat Ji Mani felt no sense of relief at this remark, for he could not convince himself that he had been spared anything by this unexpected decision of Timur-i's. He stood still for a long moment, then said, "Very well," he said in the old-fashioned Mongol language learned almost two centuries earlier at Karakhorum. "Take me where you must."

One of the men was willing to look surprised, and he said, "Do not make a fuss and this will be easier for all of us."

This assurance did not give Sanat Ji Mani any relief-if anything, he was more troubled-but he knew it would be betise to attempt to escape in this crowded place with Timur-i Lenkh himself watching; he strode off with the two men escorting him, hoping that his long life had not finally come to such an ignominious end.

"Into the courtyard," said the officer holding his bag. "Toward the smithy."

Sanat Ji Mani was somewhat surprised, for he had not seen many of Timur-i's captives wearing collars or manacles, or chains-he understood that all of them were impractical for Timur-i's style of travel, which required speed uppermost. Still, he supposed, since Timur-i had decided to make use of his medicinal skills, he would not want to give Sanat Ji Mani the opportunity for escape. Sanat Ji Mani winced at the memories of other times he had been a slave as he continued across the stable courtyard toward the smithy.

"We will have to bind you," said the officer with his bag. "If we do not, the procedure could go awry and you would not want that."

"I suppose not," said Sanat Ji Mani as they approached the smithy.

The other officer called out, "This one is to be stapled. You are to use a new sword."

From inside the smithy there was an oath of complaint, and two muscular men in leather aprons came out, one of them holding heavy tongs. "For this fellow?" he asked. His skin was hard from the constant heat of his work, and his hands were thick as paws.

The officer called back "Yes. And make it quick. We do not want to waste the day here."

"Bring him in," said the older smith and gestured toward a grooming stall. "Secure him there."

The officers did as they were told, the one carrying the bag saying, "It is better if you do not fight. I will leave your supplies with you, so you will be able to tend to the staple when you are ready."

Sanat Ji Mani still could not think how a staple might be used, but he nodded. "Thank you."

The officers confined him efficiently with heavy ropes while the smiths busied themselves on their anvils, their hammers making a penetrating clang that jarred Sanat Ji Mani; he could not see what the smiths were working on the forge, but he smelled hot metal, and supposed this could be the new sword. He could envision a number of uses for that sword, none of which were pleasant. He wanted to tell them that all attempts to brand him had left no marks, but he knew they would not listen.

"Remove his right boot," said the smith.

The officers did as they were ordered while Sanat Ji Mani wondered why they should do such a thing; he said nothing, waiting uneasily.

"Small foot," one of the officers reported. "You can use a small sole."

"Very good," said the smith, and went on working with his hammer. "Confine his leg. Most of them kick when being fitted." He laughed and struck another blow.

The two officers seized Sanat Ji Mani's right leg. "It will be done quickly," one of them said as if to quiet his anxiety, but only serving to increase it.

"Don't let him squirm. If the blade doesn't go between the bones, he'll be of no use to us," said the smith, approaching with something hot in his tongs.

The second smith carried a piece of wood roughly the shape of a foot, but broader; it was about as thick as a thumb is long, and he laid it against Sanat Ji Mani's bare sole, the wider side to the outside of the foot, then bent Sanat Ji Mani's leg so that the wood was on the floor. The soldiers gripped more tightly as the smith with the wood took hold of his toes.

Just before he bent over, Sanat Ji Mani saw what was in the tongs-a sword-blade, still glowing from the forge, bent in a U shape, both ends sharpened. He tensed futilely against what was coming. The first sizzling touch of the hot metal on his foot sent pain rioting up his leg, and when the smith adroitly hammered the staple into place in three swift blows-one end through Sanat Ji Mani's foot, the blade slipping between the bones and into the wood, the other into the wood on the outside of his foot-the odor of burning meat mixed with the acrid scent of heated metal. It was swift and the hurt was so enormous it stifled the scream in his throat.

"Water," one of the smiths ordered, and a moment later it sloshed over the newly placed staple.

"That will stop the festering," the other smith declared; Sanat Ji Mani hardly noticed: he was consumed with agony that leached all thought from his mind and drove him into a stupor.

"He's fainted," said the officer with the bag.

"Just as well," said the older smith. "Let him sleep it off." He gestured to a stall near the rear of the smithy. "Put him there. No one will bother him."

The two officers slung Sanat Ji Mani between them and carried him off to the rear stall.

"Better leave his bag with him. He'll want it when he wakes," said one of the officers.

The other dropped the bag beside Sanat Ji Mani's supine body. "See no one touches this," he called out to the smith.

"That I will," the smith said with a nonchalant wave.

"We must report to Timur-i," said one of the officers.

"Tell him it was successful-clean through the foot and no bones broken. That man will not run anywhere so long as that staple is in his foot." The smith chuckled.

"Send word if he becomes feverish," said the other officer.

The smith waved him away, and signaled to the other smith to bring more work to the forge.

Report on the sack and pillage of Delhi prepared by the surviving priests of Shiva, carried by messenger to Sultan Nasiruddin Mohammed bin Tughlaq.

By Allah the All-Seeing, the All-Compassionate, your god, O Sultan, this is a full and accurate account of what transpired in your city of Delhi during the time it was occupied by Timur-i Lenkh and his army. It was the dark of the year in many ways, and we of Delhi paid the price. All of us, no matter what station or caste or loyalty or devotion, have had to endure that which must please only Kali, for a bloodier time has not come to Delhi from the foundation of the world.

When the army went out of the gates, it fell into the hands of the army of Timur-i Lenkh, and suffered a decisive defeat. Timur-i Lenkh brought his army into the city and issued edicts that promised looting only provided certain strictures were adhered to; failure to abide by these requirements would bring swift destruction.

For a few days the people kept to the terms of the surrender, and only valuables were taken. But it was inevitable that a few would protest losing all their goods and their slaves. At first the army of Timur-i executed those who tried to keep their treasure hidden, punishing the transgressor and his family but not calling others to account for the greed of a few. The city's magistrates sat in judgment on those who transgressed and meted out the justice Timur-i Lenkh required, and many were brought into the service of his occupying army.

It went as well as could be hoped, with less than two hundred killed for their refusal to give up what Timur-i Lenkh required; but then a merchant-a man of your faith, Ismalli Heitan-refused to hand over the gold and jewels he had stored in the cellar of his house, and the killing began in earnest. For the next two days there was nothing but extermination in Delhi. Thousands upon thousands fell under the shimtares of Timur-i Lenkh's army, and their bodies were piled up in the market-squares where the paving-stones were so covered in blood that goats and cattle would not enter them, and dogs sated themselves on the decaying flesh of those who had been their masters.

Timur-i Lenkh has vowed to make another man Sultan of Delhi, to rule the empire-shrunken as it is-for him. You, he has declared, have lost Delhi for failing to defend it. He, unlike you, has promised death to those who remain in Delhi and will not embrace Islam. Those of us who are of the old faith are to be put to death in the morning. I have been ordered to prepare this account for you as a last act of devotion to you as the ruler of Delhi, which Timur-i has claimed for himself and his adherent.

Many hundreds of those who are not to be killed are now slaves of Timur-i Lenkh. He has made native-born men of Delhi and foreigners his property if he has reason to want their capabilities or other attributes to augment his might or the strength of his army. He has taken one priest from this ruined temple to serve him as translator. Others have been ordered to care for his animals and his troops. Most of them have been branded and a metal staple put through their feet so that they cannot run. I myself have seen more than fifty men so constrained, Delhi-born and foreign together.

As to women, most of them have been killed, but a few have been handed over to Timur-i Lenkh's soldiers for their pleasure. Also young, comely boys have been put into whoredom. A few have managed to kill themselves before they had to succumb to Timur-i Lenkh's men, but most have accepted their fate with resignation; they know that they might be killed at once if they do not let their bodies be used by the soldiers, and they would prefer to live than to die.

Delhi is a slaughterhouse today. It will be worse tomorrow when all we priests join the dead. The city should be burned to ashes and the ashes scattered to the winds, but Timur-i Lenkh is not so kind as to do this: he gloats over the carcasses piled up, and seeks to increase their number as a sign of his potent might. We accept the turning of the Wheel with the followers of the Buddha, who will be our brothers in dying.

Surely now that the days are beginning to lengthen again Timur-i Lenkh will abandon Delhi and seek new conquests. When he leaves there will be nothing but bones to give witness to what has happened here, and their testimony will be mute. In that day, my soul will be glad, for the destruction will finally be at an end.

May your Allah protect you from the army of Timur-i Lenkh. May he restore you to your throne, if there is a throne to claim when all of this is over. I sign myself your subject and the faithful priest of Shiva, Who will bring me to the Burning Ground.

Rishi Harata Medha