His muscles loosened as the men vigorously worked the mixture into his skin and then carefully cleansed it away with bulky cotton towels. Next they turned to his hair, combing and massaging more of the powder through it strand by strand. At last they signaled for him to rise and enter the tub. Its surface glistened with a perfumed oil, and the rising steam smelled faintly of clove. Before he could protest, the eunuchs guided him down the marble steps. As he settled into the steam again he was surrounded by waiting servants, who sprinkled more oil over the water and massaged the emulsion into his hair and skin. I'm being bathed in oil, he smiled, marveling. It's absurd, yet here it seems perfectly right. The men worked devotedly, as though he were an inanimate utensil whose purity was their lifelong obligation. His body now glistened with a reddish tint of the oil, matching the early glow of the sun that penetrated the half- shuttered windows. As they motioned for him to leave the bath, he discovered to his amazement that he would have been perfectly content to stay. Forever. But again hands were there, guiding him, this 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.