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Title: The Moghul
Author: Thomas Hoover
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THE MOGHUL
Based on real people (ca. 1620) - THE MOGHUL begins in a rip-roaring
sea battle north of Bombay in which the vastly out-gunned adventurer,
Brian Hawksworth, ship's captain and emissary of King James, blows
away a flotilla of Portuguese galleons to gain access to an Indian
port. He's come to open trade for "barbaric" England and squeeze out
the Portuguese, who try to kill him at every turn. But once on land,
he's captive: the beauty and romance of the exquisite Moghul Empire
seduce him from his material goals to a new quest - of supreme
sensuality in music, visions, and sacred lovemaking.
India, ruled by the son of great Akbar, is about to pass to one of his
sons. Hawksworth must choose sides, but will he choose right? The
future of England, and of India, depend on it. Assailed by intrigue
and assassination, tormented by a forbidden love, enthralled by a
mystic poet, Hawksworth engages war elephants, tiger hunts, the harem
of the Red Fort of Agra, the Rajput warriors at Udaipur, becomes
intimate champion to Shah Jahan, (builder of the Taj Mahal), and, in
his supreme test, plays the sitar with a touch that elicits from the
great Shah - "Finally, my English friend - you understand."
THE MOGHUL was immediately a European bestseller, optioned by Indian
producers who commissioned a six-hour mini-series, then Canadian
producers with the BBC.
THE MOGHUL
A SWEEPING ADVENTURE THAT SWEPT THE CRITICS!
"IF YOU ENJOYED THE FAR PAVILIONS OR SHO-GUN, YOU SHOULD OBTAIN THOMAS
HOOVER'S NEW NOVEL ABOUT INDIA . . . ROBUST . . . ROUSING ...
ROLLICKING ADVENTURE . . . JUST ABOUT PERFECT'
--Fort Worth Star-Telegram
"HIGH ACTION . . . SPRAWLING"
--San Diego Union
"THOMAS HOOVER CAPTURES THE SOUNDS AND SMELLS AND ATMOSPHERE OF THE
TIME, FROM THE MYSTERIESOFTHE HAREM TOTHE BATTLES BETWEEN MASSED
ELEPHANTS"
--Milwaukee Journal
"ROUSING"
--Publishers Weekly
"GOOD ENTERTAINMENT ... I WOULD NOT HESITATE TO RECOMMEND THE MOGHUL TO
ANYONE WHO ENJOYS ROBUST HISTORICAL ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE"
-- Omaha World-Herald
"PLENTY OF ACTION . . . FASCINATING ... A VIVIDLY TOLD TALE"
-- Wichita Falls Times
BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER
Nonfiction
Zen Culture
The Zen Experience
Fiction
The Moghul
Caribbee
Wall Street Samurai
(The Samurai Strategy)
Project Daedalus
Project Cyclops
Life Blood
Syndrome
All free as e-books at
www.thomashoover.info
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 475 Park
Avenue South New York, N.Y. 10016
Copyright © 1983 by Thomas Hoover
Reprinted by arrangement with Doubleday & Co., Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher,
excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
First Zebra Books printing: October 1984 Printed in the United States
of America
Key Words
Author: Thomas Hoover
Title: The Moghul
Moghul, India, Shah Jahan, British India, Taj Mahal, Portuguese India,
India, Shah Jahan, India History, Agra, Raj, Seventeenth-Century India
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This tale is offered to the memory of one William Hawkins (1575-1613),
a brandy-drinking, Turkish-speaking seaman and adventurer who was the
first Englishman to reach the court of Jahangir, the Great Moghul of
India. There he delivered gifts from the new East India Company and a
letter from King James proposing direct trade, then a zealously
protected monopoly of Portugal. As he gradually adopted Indian ways,
Hawkins became a court favorite of the Moghul, who made him a knightly
_khan _and eventually tried to keep him in India. After several
Portuguese-instigated attempts to murder him, Hawkins attached himself
for safety to a certain willful Indian woman. The end of their story
eventually became a minor legend throughout the early East India
Company.
As astonishing as some of the elements in the historical landscape
described here may seem today, they are all by and large fictional re-
creations of actual events, practices, people--drawn from diaries of
seventeenth-century European travelers and from Indian historical
materials. Aside from the names, only the clocks in this remote world
have been knowingly altered. Years in historical time have become
months in these pages, months have become days. Several vicious naval
engagements between English frigates and Portuguese galleons, several
major land battles between Indian armies, have each been compressed
into one.
But the major occurrences in this faraway saga all happened. While
Shakespeare wrote of commoners and kings, while colonists hewed log
cabins from the wilds of the New World, a land ruled by violent
intrigue, powerful drugs, and sensual beauty lay hidden in that
legendary place known as Moghul India.
BOOK ONE
LANDFALL
CHAPTER ONE
He watched from the quarterdeck as the chain fed through the whitecaps
of the bay, its staccato clatter muffled, hollow in the midday heat.
Then he sensed the anchor grab and felt an uneasy tremor pass along the
hull as the links snapped taut against the tide. The cannon were
already run in and cooling, but vagrant threads of smoke still traced
skyward through the scuttles and open hatch, curling ringlets over two
draped bodies by the mainmast. Along the main deck scurvy-blotched
seamen, haggard and shirtless to the sun, eased the wounded toward the
shade of the fo'c'sle.
He drew the last swallow of brandy from his hooped wooden tankard and
instinctively shifted his gaze aloft, squinting against the midday sun
to watch as two bosun's mates edged along the yards to furl the
mainsail. Then he turned to inspect the triangular lateen sail behind
him, parted into shreds by the first Portuguese cannon salvo, its
canvas now strewn among the mizzenmast shrouds.
A round of cheers told him the last two casks of salt pork had finally
emerged from the smoky hold, and he moved to the railing to watch as
they were rolled toward the cauldron boiling on deck. As he surveyed
the faces of the gathering men, he asked himself how many could still
chew the briny meat he had hoarded so carefully for this final morning
of the voyage.
The crowd parted as he moved down the companionway steps and onto the
deck. He was tall, with lines of fatigue etched down his angular face
and smoke residue laced through his unkempt hair and short beard. His
doublet was plain canvas, and his breeches and boots scarcely differed
from those of a common seaman. His only adornment was a small gold ring
in his left ear. Today he also wore a bloodstained binding around his
thigh, where a musket shot from a Portuguese maintop had furrowed the
skin.
He was Brian Hawksworth, captain of the five-hundred-ton English
frigate _Discovery _and Captain-General of the Third Voyage of
England's new East India Company. His commission, assigned in London
over seven months past, was to take two armed trading frigates around
the Cape of Good Hope, up the eastern coast of Africa, and then through
the Arabian Sea to the northwest coast of India. The Company had twice
before sailed eastward from the Cape, to the equatorial islands of the
Indies. No English vessel in history had ever sailed north for India.
The destination of this, the first English voyage to challenge Lisbon's
control of the India trade, was the port of Surat, twelve leagues
inland up the Tapti River, largest of the only two harbors on the
Indian subcontinent not controlled by Portugal.
He reached for the second tankard of brandy that had been brought and
squinted again toward the mouth of the Tapti, where four armed
Portuguese galleons had been anchored earlier that morning.
Damn the Company. No one planned on galleons at the river mouth. Not
now, not this early in the season. Did the Portugals somehow learn our
destination? . . . And if they knew that, do they know the rest of the
Company's plan?
Since the Tapti had been badly silted for decades, navigable only by
cargo barge or small craft, he and the merchants must travel upriver to
Surat by pinnace, the twenty-foot sailboat lashed amidships on the
_Discovery_'s main deck. There the merchants would try to negotiate
England's first direct trade with India. And Brian Hawksworth would
undertake a separate mission, one the East India Company hoped might
someday change the course of trade throughout the Indies.
He remounted the steps to the quarterdeck and paused to study the green
shoreline circling their inlet. The low-lying hills undulated in the
sun's heat, washing the _Discovery _in the dense perfume of land.
Already India beckoned, the lure even stronger than all the legends
told. He smiled to himself and drank again, this time a toast to the
first English captain ever to hoist colors off the coast of India.
Then with a weary hand he reached for the telescope, an expensive new
Dutch invention, and trained it on his second frigate, the _Resolve_,
anchored a musket shot away. Like the _Discovery_, she rode easily at
anchor, bearing to lee. He noted with relief that her ship's carpenter
had finally sealed a patch of oakum and sail in the gash along her
portside bow. For a few hours now, the men on the pumps could retire
from the sweltering hold.
Finally, he directed the glass toward the remains of two Portuguese
galleons aground in the sandy shallows off his starboard quarter, black
smoke still streaming from gaps in their planking where explosions had
ripped through the hull. And for an instant his stomach tightened, just
as it had earlier that morning, when one of those same galleons had
laid deep shadows across the _Discovery's _decks, so close he could
almost read the eyes of the infantry poised with grapples to swing down
and board. The Portugals will be back, he told himself, and soon. With
fireships.
He scanned the river mouth once more. It was deserted now. Even the
fishing craft had fled. But upriver would be another matter. Portuguese
longboats, launched with boarding parties of infantry, had been
stranded when the two galleons were lost. Together they had carried
easily a hundred, perhaps two hundred musketmen.
They made for the Tapti, he thought grimly, and they'll be upriver
waiting. We have to launch before they can set a blockade. Tonight. On
the tide.
He revolved to find Giles Mackintosh, quartermaster of the _Discovery_,
waiting mutely by his side.
"Mackintosh, start outfitting the pinnace. We launch at sunset, before
the last dog watch."
The quartermaster pulled at his matted red curls in silence as he
studied the tree-lined river mouth. Then he turned abruptly to
Hawksworth. "Takin' the pinnace upriver'll be a death sentence, Cap'n,
I warrant you. Portugals'll be layin' for us, thicker'n whores at a
Tyburn hangin'." He paused deliberately and knotted the string holding
back hair from his smoke-darkened cheeks. "I say we weigh at the tide
and ease the frigates straight up their hell-bound river. She's wide as
the Thames at Woolwich. We'll run out the guns and hand the pox-rotted
Papists another taste o' English courtesy."
"Can you navigate the sandbars?"
"I've seen nae sign of bars."
"The Indian pilot we took on yesterday claims there's shallows
upriver."
"All the more reason to sail. By my thinkin' the pilot's a full-bred
Moor. An' they're all the same, Indian or Turk." Mackintosh blew his
nose over the railing, punctuating his disgust. "Show me one that's na
a liar, a thief, or a damned Sodomite. Nae honest Christian'll credit
the word of a Moor."
"There's risk either way." Hawksworth drew slowly on the brandy,
appearing to weigh the Scotsman's views. "But there's the cargo to
think of. Taken for all, it's got to be the pinnace. And this Moorish
pilot's not like the Turks. I should know."
"Aye, Cap'n, as you will." Mackintosh nodded with seeming reluctance,
admiring how Hawksworth had retained mastery of their old game. Even
after two years apart. "But I'll be watchin' the bastard, e'ery move he
makes."
Hawksworth turned and slowly descended the quarterdeck steps. As he
entered the passageway leading aft to the Great Cabin and the
merchants' cabins, he saw the silhouette of George Elkington. The Chief
Merchant of the voyage was standing by the quarter gallery railing,
drawing on a long clay pipe as he urinated into the swells. When he
spotted Hawksworth, he whirled and marched heavily down the corridor,
perfunctorily securing the single remaining button of his breeches.
Elkington's once-pink jowls were slack and pasty, and his grease-
stained doublet sagged over what had been, seven months past, a
luxuriant belly. Sweat trickled down from the sides of his large hat,
streaming oily rivulets across his cheeks.
"Hawksworth, did I hear you order the pinnace launch'd tonight? E'en
before we've made safe anchorage for the cargo?"
"The sooner the better. The Portugals know we'll have to go upriver. By
tomorrow they'll be ready."
"Your first obligation, sirrah, is the goods. Every shilling the
Company subscrib'd is cargo'd in these two damn'd merchantmen. A fine
fortune in wool broadcloth, Devonshire kersey, pig iron, tin,
quicksilver. I've a good ten thousand pound of my own accounts
invest'd. And you'd leave it all hove to in this piss crock of a bay,
whilst the Portugals are doubtless crewin' up a dozen two-deckers down
the coast in Goa. 'Tis sure they'll be laid full about this anchorage
inside a fortnight."
Hawksworth inspected Elkington with loathing, musing what he disliked
about him most--his grating voice, or his small lifeless eyes.
And what you probably don't realize is they'll be back next time with
trained gunners. Not like today, when their gun crews clearly were
Lisbon dockside rabble, private traders who'd earned passage out to the
Indies on the easy claim they were gunners, half not knowing a linstock
from a lamppost.
"Elkington, I'll tell you as much of our plans as befits your place."
Hawksworth moved past him toward the door of the Great Cabin. "We're
taking the pinnace upriver tonight on the tide. And you'll be in it,
along with your coxcomb clerk. Captain Kerridge of the _Resolve_ will
take command of the ships. I've already prepared orders to move both
frigates to a new anchorage."
"I demand to know what damn'd fool scheme you've hatch'd."
"There's no reason you have to know. Right now the fewer who know the
better, particularly the men going upriver."
"Well, I know this much, Hawksworth. This voyage to India may well be
the East India Company's last chance to trade in the Indies. If we fail
three voyages in a row, we'd as well close down the Company and just
buy pepper and spice outright from the damn'd Hollanders. England's got
no goods that'll trade in the Spice Islands south o' here. Remember
Lancaster cargo'd wool down to the islands on the first two Company
voyages, thinkin' to swap it for pepper, and discover'd for himself
what I'd guess'd all along--a tribe of heathens sweatin' in the sun have
no call for woolen breeches. So either we trade up here in the north,
where they'll take wool, or we're finish'd."
"The anchorage I've found should keep the cargo--and the men--safe till
we make Surat. With luck you'll have your cargo aland before the
Portugals locate us." Hawksworth pushed open the heavy oak door of the
Great Cabin and entered, stranding Elkington in the passageway. "And
now I wish you good day."
The cabin's dark overhead beams were musty from the heat and its air
still dense with smoke from the cannon. The stern windows were partly
blocked now by the two bronze demi-culverin that had been run out aft,
"stern-chaser" cannon that could spit a nine-pound ball with deadly
accuracy--their lighter bronze permitting longer barrels than those of
the cast-iron guns below decks. He strode directly to the oil lantern
swaying over the great center desk and turned up the wick. The cabin
brightened slightly, but the face of the English lute wedged in the
corner seemed suddenly to come alive, shining gold over the cramped
quarters like a full moon. He stared at it wistfully for a moment, then
shook his head and settled himself behind the large oak desk. And asked
himself once more why he had ever agreed to the voyage.
To prove something? To the Company? To himself?
He reflected again on how it had come about, and why he had finally
accepted the Company's offer. . . .
It had been a dull morning in late October, the kind of day when all
London seems trapped in an icy gloom creeping up from the Thames. His
weekly lodgings were frigid as always, and his mind was still numb from
the previous night's tavern brandy. Back from Tunis scarcely a month,
he already had nothing left to pawn. Two years before, he had been
leading a convoy of merchantmen through the Mediterranean when their
ships and cargo were seized by Turkish corsairs, galleys owned by the
notorious _dey _of Tunis. He had finally managed to get back to London,
but now he was a captain without a ship. In years past this might have
been small matter to remedy. But no longer. England, he discovered, had
changed.
The change was apparent mainly to seamen. The lower house of Parliament
was still preoccupied fighting King James's new proposal that Scotland
be joined to England, viewed by most Englishmen as a sufferance of
proud beggars and ruffians upon a nation of uniformly upright
taxpayers; in London idle crowds still swarmed the bear gardens to
wager on the huge mastiffs pitted against the chained bears; rioting
tenant farmers continued to outrage propertied men by tearing down
enclosures and grazing their flocks on the gentry's private hunting
estates; and the new Puritans increasingly harassed everyone they
disapproved of, from clerics who wore vestments to women who wore
cosmetics to children who would play ball on Sunday.
Around London more talk turned on which handsome young courtier was the
latest favorite of their effeminate new king than on His Majesty's
enforcement of his new and strict decree forbidding privateering--the
staple occupation of England seamen for the last three decades of
Elizabeth's reign. King James had cravenly signed a treaty of peace
with Spain, and by that act brought ruin to half a hundred thousand
English "sea dogs." They awoke to discover their historic livelihood,
legally plundering the shipping of Spain and Portugal under wartime
letters of marque, had become a criminal offense.
For a captain without a ship, another commission by a trading company
seemed out of the question, and especially now, with experienced seamen
standing idle the length of London. Worst of all, the woman he had
hoped to return to, red-haired Maggie Tyne of Billingsgate, had
disappeared from her old lodgings and haunts leaving no trace. Rumor
had her married--some said to the master of a Newcastle coal barge,
others to a gentleman. London seemed empty now, and he passed the
vacant days with brandy and his lute, and thoughts of quitting the sea--
to do he knew not what.
Then in that cold early dawn appeared the letter, requesting his
immediate appearance at the Director's Office of the East India
Company, should this coincide with his convenience. He found its tone
ominous. Was some merchant planning to have him jailed for his loss of
cargo to the Turks? But he'd been sailing for the Levant Company, not
the East India Company. He debated with himself all morning, and
finally decided to go. And face the mercantile bastards.
The new offices of the Company already seemed embalmed in the smell of
lamp oil and sweat, their freshly painted wood timbers masked in dull
soot. A stale odor of ink, paper, and arid commerce assailed his senses
as he was announced and ushered through the heavy oak door of the
Director's suite.
And he was astonished by what awaited. Standing hard by the Director's
desk--was Maggie. He'd searched the length of London in vain for her,
and here she was. But he almost didn't recognize her. Their two years
apart had brought a change beyond anything he could have imagined.
No one would have guessed what she once had been, a dockside girl
happiest at the Southwark bear-gardens, or in a goose-down bed. And
somehow she had always managed to turn a shilling at both--wagering with
a practiced eye on the snarling dogs brought in to bloody the bears, or
taking her pleasure only after deftly extracting some loan, to allay an
urgent need she inevitably remembered the moment she entered his
lodgings.
That morning, however, she reigned like an exotic flower, flourishing
amid the mercantile gloom. She was dressed and painted in the very
latest upper-class style--her red hair now bleached deep yellow,
sprinkled thick with gold dust, and buried under a feathered hat; her
crushed-velvet bodice low-necked, cut fashionably just below the
nipples, then tied at the neck with a silk lace ruff; her once-ruddy
breasts now painted pale, with blue veins penciled in; and her face
carefully powdered lead-white, save the red dye on her lips and cheeks
and the glued-on beauty patches of stars and half-moons. His dockside
girl had become a completely modern lady of fashion. He watched in
disbelief as she curtsied to him, awkwardly.
Then he noticed Sir Randolph Spencer, Director of the Company.
"Captain Hawksworth. So you're the man we've heard so much about?
Understand you escaped from Tunis under the very nose of the damned
Turks." He extended a manicured hand while he braced himself on the
silver knob of his cane. Although Spencer's flowing hair was pure
white, his face still clung tenuously to youth. His doublet was
expensive, and in the new longer waist-length style Hawksworth
remembered seeing on young men-about-town. "'Tis indeed a pleasure.
Nay, 'tis an honor." The tone was practiced and polite, a transparent
attempt at sincerity rendered difficult by Hawksworth's ragged
appearance. He had listened to Spencer mutely, suddenly realizing his
loss of cargo had been forgotten. He was being congratulated for coming
back alive.
"'Twas the wife, Margaret here, set me thinkin' about you. Says you two
were lightly acquainted in younger years. Pity I never knew her then
myself." Spencer motioned him toward a carved wooden chair facing the
desk. "She ask'd to be here today to help me welcome you. Uncommonly
winsome lady, what say?"
Hawksworth looked at Maggie's gloating eyes and felt his heart turn. It
was obvious enough she'd found her price. At last she had what she'd
always really wanted, a rich widower. But why trouble to flaunt it?
He suspected he already knew. She simply couldn't resist.
"Now I pride myself on being a sound judge of humanity, Hawksworth, and
I've made sufficient inquiry to know you can work a ship with the best.
So I'll come right to it. I suppose 'tis common talk the Company's
dispatchin' another voyage down to the Indies this comin' spring. Soon
as our new frigate, the _Discovery_, is out of the yard. And this time
our first port of call's to be India." Spencer caught Hawksworth's
look, without realizing it was directed past him, at Maggie. "Aye, I
know. We all know. The damned Portugals've been there a hundred year,
thick as flies on pudding. But by Jesus we've no choice but to try
openin' India to English trade."
Spencer had paused and examined Hawksworth skeptically. A process of
sizing up seemed underway, of pondering whether this shipless captain
with the bloodshot eyes and gold earring was really the man. He looked
down and inspected his manicured nails for a long moment, then
continued.
"Now what I'm about to tell you mustn't go past this room. But first
let me ask you, Is everything I've heard about you true? 'Tis said the
_dey _of Tunis held you there after he took your merchantmen, in hopes
you'd teach his damned Turks how to use the English cannon you had on
board."
"He's started building sailing bottoms now, thinking he'll replace the
galleys his Turkish pirates have used for so long. His shipwrights are
some English privateers who've relocated in Tunis to escape prison
here. And he was planning to outfit his new sailing ships with my
cannon. He claims English cast-iron culverin are the best in the
world."
"God damn the Barbary Turks. And the Englishmen who've started helping
them." Spencer bristled. "Next thing and they'll be out past Gibraltar,
pillaging our shipping right up the Thames. But I understand you
revised his plans."
"The Turks don't have any more cannon now than they had two years ago.
When I refused to help them, they put me in prison, under guard. But
one night I managed to knife two of the guards and slip down to the
yard. I worked till dawn and had the guns spiked before anybody
realized I was gone."
"And I hear you next stole a single-masted shallop and sail'd the
length of the Barbary coast alone, right up to Gibraltar, where you
hailed an English merchantman?"
"Didn't seem much point in staying on after that."
"You're the man all right. Now, 'tis said you learn'd the language of
the Turks while you were in Tunis. Well, sirrah, answer me now, can you
speak it or no?"
"For two years I scarcely heard a word of English. But what's that to
do with trade in India? From what I know, you'll need a few merchants
who speak Portuguese. And plenty of English . . ."
"Hear me out, sir. If all I wanted was to anchor a cargo of English
goods and pull off some trade for a season, I'd not be
needin' a man like you. But let me tell you a thing or so about India.
The rulers there now are named Moghuls. They used to be called Mongols,
Turkish-Afghans from Turkistan, before they took over India about a
hundred years back, and their king, the one they call the Great Moghul,
still speaks some Turki, the language of the Central Asian steppes. Now
I'm told this Turki bears fair resemblance to the language of the
damned Turks in the Mediterranean." Spencer assumed a conspiratorial
smile. "I've a plan in mind, but it needs a man who speaks this Great
Moghul's language."
Hawksworth suddenly realized Maggie must have somehow convinced Spencer
he was the only seaman in England who knew Turkish. It could scarcely
be true.
"Now I ask you, Hawksworth, what's the purpose of the East India
Company? Well, 'tis to trade wool for pepper and spice, simple as that.
To find a market for English commodity, mainly wool. And to ship home
with cheap pepper. Now we can buy all the pepper we like down in Java
and Sumatra, but they'll not take wool in trade. And if we keep on
buying there with gold, there'll never be a farthing's profit in our
voyages to the Indies. By the same token, we're sure these Moghuls in
North India will take wool. They already buy it from the damned
Portugals. But they don't grow pepper." Spencer leaned forward and his
look darkened slightly. "The hard fact is the East India Company's not
done nearly as well as our subscribers hoped. But now the idea's come
along--I hate to admit 'twas George Elkington first thought of it--that
we try swappin' wool for the cotton goods they produce in North India,
then ship these south and trade for pepper and spice. Indian traders
have sold their cotton calicoes in the Spice Islands for years. Do you
follow the strategy?"
Spencer had scrutinized Hawksworth for a moment, puzzling at his flash
of anger when Elkington's name was mentioned, then pressed forward.
"Overall not a bad idea, considerin' it came from Elkington." Then
Spencer dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "But what he doesn't
understand is if we're goin' to start tradin' in India, we'll need a
real treaty, like the Hollanders have down in some of the islands.
Because once you've got a treaty, you can settle a permanent trading
station, what we call a 'factory,' and bargain year round. Buy when
prices are best."
Hawksworth sensed the interview would not be short, and he settled
uneasily into the chair. Maggie still stood erect and formal, affecting
a dignity more studied than natural. As Spencer warmed to his subject
he seemed to have forgotten her.
"Now, sir, once we have a factory we can start sending in a few cannon--
to 'protect our merchants,' like the Hollanders do in the islands--and
soon enough we've got the locals edgy. Handle it right and pretty soon
they'll sign over exclusive trade. No more competition." Spencer smiled
again in private satisfaction. "Are you startin' to follow my
thinkin'?"
"What you've described is the very arrangement the Portugals have in
India now." Hawksworth tried to appear attentive, but he couldn't keep
his eyes off Maggie, who stood behind Spencer wearing a triumphant
smile. "And they've got plenty of cannon and sail to make sure their
trade's exclusive."
"We know all about the Portugals' fleet of warships, and their
shipyards in Goa, and all the rest. But these things always take time.
Took the Portugals many a year to get their hooks into India's ports.
But their days are numbered there, Hawksworth. The whole Eastern empire
of the Portugals is rotten. I can almost smell it. But if we dally
about, the damned Hollanders are sure to move in." Spencer had become
increasingly excited, and Hawksworth watched as he began pacing about
the room.
"Well, if you're saying you want a treaty, why not just send an
ambassador to the Great Moghul's court?"
"Damn me, Hawksworth, it's not that easy. We send some dandified gentry
who doesn't know the language, and he'll end up havin' to do all his
talkin' through court interpreters. And who might they be? Well let me
just show you, sirrah." Spencer began to shuffle impatiently through
the papers on his desk. "They're Jesuits. Damned Jesuits. Papists
straight out o' Lisbon. We know for a fact they do all the translatin'
for the court in Agra." He paused as he rummaged the stacks in front of
him. "We've just got hold of some Jesuit letters. Sent out from the
Moghul capital at Agra, through Goa, intended for Lison. They'll tell
you plain enough what the Company's up against." His search became
increasingly frenetic. "Damn me, they were here." He rose and shuffled
toward the door, waving his cane in nervous agitation. "Hold a minute."
Hawksworth had watched him disappear through the doorway, then looked
back to see Maggie laughing. She retrieved a leather-bound packet from
the mantel and tossed it carelessly onto the desk. He found himself
watching her in admiration, realizing some things never change.
"What the hell's this about?"
She smiled and her voice was like always. "Methinks 'tis plain enough."
"You want me gone from London this badly?"
"He takes care o' me. At least he loves me. Something you were ne'er
capable of."
"And what were you capable of? All you wanted was . . ."
"I . . ." She looked away. "I know he'll give me what you ne'er would.
At least he has feelin' for me. More than you e'er did. Or could." Then
she turned back and looked at him for a long moment. "Say you'll go.
Knowin' you're still. . ."
"Damn it all!" Spencer burst back through the doorway. Then he spied
the leather packet. "That's it." He seized the bundle and thrust it
toward Hawksworth. "Read these through, sirrah, and you'll see clear
enough what we're up against. There's absolutely no point whatever in
postin' a real ambassador now." He hesitated for a moment, as though
unsure how to phrase his next point. "The most amazing thing is what
they say about the Great Moghul himself, the one they call Arangbar.
The Jesuits claim the man's scarcely ever sober. Seems he lives on some
kind of poppy sap they call opium, and on wine. He's a Moor sure
enough, but he drinks like a Christian, downs a full gallon of wine a
day. E'en holds audiences with a flagon in his hand. From the letters I
can sense the Jesuits all marvel how the damned heathen does it, but
they swear 'tis true. No, sirrah, we can't send some fancy-titled
ambassador now. That's later. We want a man of quality, it goes without
sayin', but he's got to be able to drink with that damned Moor and
parlay with him in his cups. No Jesuit interpreters."
Hawksworth steadied his hand on the carved arm of the chair, still
amazed by Maggie. "What will your subscribers think about sending the
captain of a merchantman to the court of Moghul India?"
"Never you mind the subscribers. Just tell me if you'd consider it.
T'will be a hard voyage, and a perilous trip inland once you make
landfall. But you sail'd the Mediterranean half a decade, and you know
enough about the Turks." Spencer tapped his fingers impatiently on his
ink-stained blotter. "And lest you're worried, have no doubt the
Company knows how to reward success."
Hawksworth looked again at Maggie. Her blue eyes were mute as stone.
"To tell the truth, I'm not sure I'm interested in a voyage to India.
George Elkington might be able to tell you the reason why. Have you
told me all of it?"
"Damn Elkington. What's he to do with this?" Spencer stopped in front
of the desk and fixed Hawksworth's gaze. "Aye, there's more. But what
I'm about to tell you now absolutely has to remain between us. So have
I your word?"
Hawksworth found himself nodding.
"Very well, sir. Then I'll give you the rest. His Majesty, King James,
is sending a personal letter to be delivered to this Great Moghul. And
gifts. All the usual diplomatic falderal these potentates expect. You'd
deliver the whole affair. Now the letter'll offer full and free trade
between England and India, nothing more. Won't mention the Portugals.
That'll come later. This is just the beginning. For now all we want is
a treaty to trade alongside the damned Papists. Break their monopoly."
"But why all the secrecy?"
"'Tis plain as a pikestaff, sirrah. The fewer know what we're plannin',
the less chance of word gettin' out to the Portugals, or the
Hollanders. Let the Papists and the Butterboxes look to their affairs
after we have a treaty. Remember the Portugals are swarmin' about the
Moghul's court, audiences every day. Not to mention a fleet of warships
holdin' the entire coast. And if they spy your colors, they're not apt
to welcome you aland for roast capon and grog."
"Who else knows about this?"
"Nobody. Least of all that windbag Elkington, who'd have it talk'd the
length of Cheapside in a fortnight. He'll be on the voyage, I regret to
say, but just as Chief Merchant. Which is all he's fit for, though I'd
warrant he presumes otherwise."
"I'd like a few days to think about it." Hawksworth looked again at
Maggie, still disbelieving. "First I'd like to see the _Discovery_. And
I'd also like to see your navigation charts for the Indian Ocean. I've
seen plenty of logs down to the Cape, and east, but nothing north from
there."
"And with good reason. We've got no rutters north of the Cape. No
English sea dog's ever sail'd it. But I've made some inquiries, and I
think I've located a salt here who shipp'd it once, a long time past. A
Dutchman named Huyghen. The truth is he was born and rais'd right here
in London. He started out a Papist and when things got a bit hot in
England back around time of the Armada he left for Holland. E'en took a
Dutch name. Next he mov'd on down to Portugal thinkin' to be a Jesuit,
then shipp'd out to Goa and round the Indies. But he got a bellyfull of
popery soon enough, and came back to Amsterdam. Some years later he
help'd out their merchants by tellin' them exactly how the Portugals
navigate the passage round the Cape and out. The Hollanders say hadn't
been for the maps he drew up, they'd never have been able to double the
Cape in the first place. But he's back in London now, and we've track'd
him down. I understand he may've gone a bit daft, but perhaps 'twould
do no harm if you spoke to him."
"And what about the _Discovery_? I want to see her too."
"That you will, sir. She's in our shipyard down at Deptford. Might be
well if I just had Huyghen see you there. By all means look her over."
He beamed. "And a lovelier sight you're ne'er like to meet." Then,
remembering himself, he quickly turned aside. "Unless, of course,
'twould be my Margaret here." . . .
As agreed, Hawksworth was taken to Deptford the next day, the Company's
carriage inching through London's teeming streets for what seemed a
lifetime. His first sight of the shipyard was a confused tangle of
planking, ropes, and workmen, but he knew at a glance the _Discovery_
was destined to be handsome. The keel had been laid weeks before, and
he could already tell her fo'c'sle would be low and rakish. She was a
hundred and thirty feet from the red lion of her beakhead to the
taffrail at her stern--where gilding already was being applied to the
ornate quarter galleries. She was five hundred tons burden, each ton
some six hundred cubic feet of cargo space, and she would carry a
hundred and twenty men when fully crewed. Over her swarmed an army of
carpenters, painters, coopers, riggers, and joiners, while skilled
artisans were busy attaching newly gilded sculptures to her bow and
stern.
That day they were completing the installation of the hull chain-plates
that would secure deadeyes for the shrouds, and he moved closer to
watch. Stories had circulated the docks that less than a month into the
Company's last voyage the mainmast yard of a vessel had split, and the
shipbuilder, William Benten, and his foreman, Edward Chandler, had
narrowly escaped charges of lining their pockets by substituting cheap,
uncured wood.
He noticed that barrels of beer had been stationed around the yard for
the workmen, to blunt the lure of nearby alehouses, and as he stood
watching he saw Chandler seize a grizzled old bystander who had helped
himself to a tot of beer and begin forcibly evicting him from the yard.
As they passed, he heard the old man--clad in a worn leather jerkin, his
face ravaged by decades of salt wind and hard drink-- reviling the
Company.
"What does the rottin' East India Company know o' the Indies. You'll
ne'er double the Cape in that pissin' shallop. 'Twould scarce serve to
ferry the Thames." The old man struggled weakly to loosen Chandler's
grasp on his jerkin. "But I can tell you th' Portugals've got carracks
that'll do it full easy, thousand-ton bottoms that'd hold this skiff in
the orlop deck and leave air for a hundred barrel o' biscuit. An' I've
shipped 'em. By all the saints, where's the man standin' that knows the
Indies better?"
Hawksworth realized he must be Huyghen. He intercepted him at the edge
of the yard and invited him to a tavern, but the old Englishman-turned-
Dutchman bitterly declined.
"I'll ha' none o' your fancy taverns, lad, aswarm wi' pox-faced gentry
fingerin' their meat pies. They'll ne'er take in the likes o' me." Then
he examined Hawksworth and flashed a toothless grin. "But there's an
alehouse right down the way where a man wi' salt in his veins can still
taste a drop in peace."
They went and Hawksworth had ordered the first round. When the tankards
arrived, Huyghen attacked his thirstily, maintaining a cynical silence
as Hawksworth began describing the Company's planned voyage, then asked
him what he knew of the passage east and north of the Cape. As soon as
his first tankard was dry, the old man spoke.
"Aye, I made the passage once, wi' Portugals. Back in'83. To Goa. An'
I've been to the Indies many a time since, wi' Dutchmen. But ne'er
again to that pissin' sinkhole."
"But what about the passage north, through the Indian Ocean?"
"I'll tell you this, lad, 'tis a sight different from shootin' down to
Java, like the Company's done before. 'Tis the roughest passage you're
e'er like to ship. Portugals post bottoms twice the burden o' the
Company's damn'd little frigates and still lose a hundred men e'ery
voyage out. When scurvy don't take 'em all. E'en the Dutchmen are
scared o' it."
Then Huyghen returned to his stories of Goa. Something in the
experience seemed to preoccupy his mind. Hawksworth found the
digression irritating, and he impatiently pressed forward.
"But what about the passage? How do they steer north
from the Cape? The Company has no charts, no rutters by pilots who've
made the passage."
"An' how could they?" Huyghen evaluated Hawksworth's purse lying on the
wooden table and discreetly signaled another round. "The Portugals know
the trick, lad, but you'll ne'er find one o' the whoremasters who'll
give it out."
"But is there a trade wind you can ride? Like the westerly to the
Americas?"
"Nothin' o' the sort, lad. But there's a wind sure enough. Only she
shifts about month by month. Give me that chart an' I'll show you."
Huyghen stretched for the parchment Hawksworth had brought, the new Map
of the World published by John Davis in 1600. He spread it over the
table, oblivious to the grease and encrusted ale, and stared at it for
a moment in groggy disbelief. Then he turned on Hawksworth. "Who drew
up this map?"
"It was assembled by an English navigator, from charts he made on his
voyages."
"He's the lyin' son of a Spaniard's whore. I made this chart o' the
Indies wi' my own hand, years ago, for the Dutchmen. But what's the
difference? He copied it right." Huyghen spat on the floor and then
stabbed the east coast of Africa with a stubby finger. "Now you come
out o' the Mozambique Channel and into the Indian Ocean too early in
the summer, and you'll be the only bottom fool enough to be out o'
port. The monsoon'll batter you to plankin'. Get there too late, say
past the middle o' September, and you're fightin' a head wind all the
way. She's already turn'd on you. But come north round by Sokatra near
the end o' August and you'll ride a steady gale right into North India.
That's the tail o' the monsoon, lad, just before the winds switch
about. Two weeks, three at most, that's all you'll get. But steer it
true an' you'll make landfall just as India's ports reopen for the
autumn tradin' season."
Huyghen's voice trailed off as he morosely inspected the bottom of his
tankard. Hawksworth motioned for a third round, and as the old man drew
on the ale his eyes mellowed.
"Aye, you might make it. There's a look about you tells me you can work
a ship. But why would you want to be goin'?
T'will swallow you up, lad. I've only been to Goa, mind you, down on
India's west coastline, but that was near enough. I ne'er saw a man
come back once he went in India proper. Somethin' about it keeps 'em
there. Portugals says she always changes a man. He loses touch wi' what
he was. Nothin' we know about counts for anything there, lad."
"What do you mean? How different could it be? I saw plenty of Moors in
Tunis."
Huyghen laughed bitterly. "If you're thinkin' 'tis the same as Tunis,
then you're e'en a bigger fool than I took you for. Nay, lad, the Moor
part's the very least o' it." He drew on his tankard slowly,
deliberately. "I've thought on't a considerable time, an' I think I've
decipher'd what 'tis. But 'tis not a thing easy to spell out."
Huyghen was beginning to drift now, his eyes glazed in warm
forgetfulness from the ale. But still he continued. "You know, lad, I
actually saw some Englishmen go into India once before. Back in '83.
Year I was in Goa. An' they were ne'er heard from since."
Hawksworth stared at the old man a moment, and suddenly the name
clicked, and the date--1583. Huyghen must have been the Dutch Catholic,
the one said to speak fluent English, who'd intervened for the English
scouting party imprisoned in Goa that year by the Portuguese. He tried
to still his pulse.
"Do you remember the Englishmen's names?"
"Seem to recall they were led by a man nam'd Symmes. But 'twas a long
time past, lad. Aye, Goa was quite the place then. Lucky I escap'd when
I did. E'en there, you stay awhile an' somethin' starts to hold you.
Too much o' India about the place. After a while all this"--Huyghen
gestured fondly about the alehouse, where sweat-soaked laborers and
seamen were drinking, quarreling, swearing as they bargained with a
scattering of weary prostitutes in dirty, tattered shifts--"all this
seems . . ." He took a deep draft of ale, attempting vainly to
formulate his thoughts. "I've ne'er been one wi' words. But don't do
it, lad. You go in, go all the way in to India, an' I'll wager you'll
ne'er be heard from more. I've seen it happen."
Hawksworth listened as Huyghen continued, his stories of the Indies a
mixture of ale and dreams. After a time he signaled another round for
them both. It was many empty tankards later when they parted.
But Huyghen's words stayed. And that night Brian Hawksworth walked
alone on the quay beside the Thames, bundled against the wet autumn
wind, and watched the ferry lanterns ply through the fog and heard the
muffled harangues of streetwalkers and cabmen from the muddy street
above. He thought about Huyghen, and about the man named Roger Symmes,
and about the voyage to India.
And he thought too about Maggie, who wanted him out of London before
her rich widower discovered the truth. Or before she admitted the truth
to herself. But either way it no longer seemed to matter.
That night he decided to accept the commission. . . .
The _Discovery _rolled heavily and Hawksworth glanced instinctively
toward the pulley lines that secured the two bronze cannon. Then he
remembered why he had left the quarterdeck, and he unlocked the top
drawer of the desk and removed the ship's log. He leafed one more time
through its pages, admiring his own script--strong but with an
occasional flourish.
Someday this could be the most valuable book in England, he told
himself. If we return. This will be the first log in England to
describe what the voyage to India is really like. The Company will have
a full account of the weather and sea, recorded by estimated longitude,
the distance traveled east.
He congratulated himself again on the care with which he had taken
their daily speed and used it to estimate longitude every morning since
the Cape, the last location where it was known exactly. And as he
studied the pages of the log, he realized how exact Huyghen's
prediction had been. The old man had been eerily correct about the
winds and the sea. They had caught the "tail o' the monsoon" precisely.
"August 27. Course N.E. ft E.; The wind at W.S., with gusts and rain.
Made 36 leagues today. Estimated longitude from the Cape 42° 50' E.
"August 28. Course N.E.; The wind at west, a fresh gale, with gusts and
rain this 24 hours. Leagues 35. Estimated longitude from the Cape, 44°
10' E."
The late August westerly Huyghen had foretold was carrying them a good
hundred land miles a day. They rode the monsoon's tail, and it was
still angry, but there was no longer a question that English frigates
could weather the passage.
As August drew to a close, however, scurvy had finally grown epidemic
on his sister ship, the _Resolve_. The men's teeth loosened, their gums
bled, and they began to complain of aching and burning in their limbs.
It was all the more tragic for the fact that this timeless scourge of
ocean travelers might at long last be preventable. Lancaster, on the
very first voyage of the East India Company, had stumbled onto an
historic _Discovery_. As a test, he'd shipped bottles of the juice of
lemons on his flagship and ordered every seaman to take three spoonfuls
a day. And his had been the only vessel of the three to withstand
scurvy.
Hawksworth had argued with Captain Kerridge of the _Resolve_, insisting
they both stow lemon juice as a preventative. But Kerridge had always
resented Lancaster, particularly the fact he'd been knighted on return
from a voyage that showed almost no profit. He refused to credit
Lancaster's findings.
"No connection. By my thinkin' Lancaster just had a run o' sea-dog
luck. Then he goes about claimin' salt meat brings on the scurvy. A
pack o' damn'd foolishness. I say salt meat's fine for the lads. Boil
it up with a mess o' dried peas and I'll have it myself. The _Resolve'
_ll be provision'd like always. Sea biscuit, salt pork, Hollander
cheese. Any fool knows scurvy comes from men sleepin' in the night dews
off the sea. Secure your gunports by night and you'll ne'er see the
damn'd scurvy."
Hawksworth had suspected Kerridge's real reason was the cost: lemon
juice was imported and expensive. When the Company rejected his own
request for an allowance, he had provisioned the _Discovery _out of his
own advance. Kerridge
had called him a fool. And when they sailed in late February, the
_Resolve_ was unprovided.
Just as Hawksworth had feared, the _Resolve's _crew had been plagued by
scurvy throughout the voyage, even though both vessels had put in for
fresh provisions at Zanzibar in late June. Six weeks ago, he had had no
choice but to order half his own remaining store of lemon juice
transferred to the sister ship, even though this meant reducing the
_Discovery_'s ration to a spoon a day, not enough.
By the first week of September, they were so near India they could
almost smell land, but he dared not try for landfall. Not yet. Not
without an Indian pilot to guide them past the notorious sandbars and
shoals that lined the coast like giant submerged claws. The monsoon
winds were dying. Indian shipping surely would begin soon. So they hove
to, waiting.
And as they waited, they watched the last kegs of water choke with
green slime, the wax candles melt in the heat, and the remaining
biscuit all but disappear to weevils. Hungry seamen set a price on the
rats that ran the shrouds. How long could they last?
Hawksworth reached the last entry in the log. Yesterday. The day they
had waited for.
"Sept. 12. Laid by the lee. Estimated longitude from the Cape, 50° 10'
E. Latitude observed 20°30'. At 7 in the morning we command a large
ship from the country to heave to, by shooting four pieces across her
bow. Took from this ship an Indian pilot, paying in Spanish rials of
eight. First offered English gold sovereigns, but these refused as
unknown coin. Also purchased 6 casks water, some baskets lemons,
melons, plantains."
The provisions had scarcely lasted out the day, spread over twice a
hundred hungry seamen. But with a pilot they could at last make
landfall.
And landfall they had made, at a terrible price. Yet even this
anchorage could not be kept. It was too exposed and vulnerable. He had
expected it to be so, and he had been right. But he also knew where
they might find safety.
The previous night he had ordered the Indian pilot to sketch a chart of
the coastline on both sides of the Tapti River delta. He did not tell
him why. And on the map he had spotted a cove five leagues to the
north, called Swalley, that looked to be shallow and was also shielded
by hills screening it from the sea. Even if the Portuguese discovered
them, the deep draft of Portuguese galleons would hold them at sea. The
most they could do would be send boarding parties by pinnace, or
fireships. The cove would buy time, time to replenish stores, perhaps
even to set the men ashore and attend the sick. The longer the
anchorage could be kept secret, the better their chances. He had
already prepared sealed orders for Captain Kerridge, directing him to
steer both frigates there after dark, when their movement could not be
followed by the hidden eyes along the coast.
He took a deep breath and flipped forward to a blank page in the log.
And realized this was the moment he had been dreading, been postponing:
the last entry for the voyage out. Perhaps his last ever--if events in
India turned against him. He swabbed more sweat from his face and
glanced one last time at the glistening face of the lute, wondering
what he would be doing now, at this moment, if he still were in London,
penniless but on his own.
Then he wiped off the quill lying neatly alongside the leather-bound
volume, inked it, and shoved back the sleeve of his doublet to write.
CHAPTER TWO
The events of that morning were almost too improbable to be
described. After taking on the Indian pilot, Hawksworth's plan had been
to make landfall immediately, then launch a pinnace for Surat, there to
negotiate trade for their goods and safe conduct to the capital at Agra
for himself. If things went as planned, the goods would be exchanged
and he would be on his way to the Moghul capital long before word of
their arrival could reach Goa and the Portuguese.
The pilot's worth was never in question. A practiced seaman, he had
steered them easily through the uncharted currents and hidden swallows
of the bay. They had plotted a course directly east-north-east, running
with topgallants on the night breeze, to make dawn anchorage at the
mouth of the Tapti River. Through the night the _Resolve_ had stayed
with them handily, steering by their stem lantern.
When the first light broke in the east, hard and sudden, there it lay--
the coast of India, the landfall, the sight they had waited for the
long seven months. Amid the cheers he had ordered their colors hoisted--
the red cross, bordered in white, on a field of blue--the first English
flag ever to fly off India's coast.
But as the flag snapped its way along the poop staff, and the men
struck up a hornpipe on deck, their triumph suddenly was severed by a
cry from the maintop.
"Sails off the starboard quarter."
In the sudden hush that rolled across the ship like a shroud, freezing
the tumult of voice and foot, Hawksworth had charged up the
companionway to the quarterdeck. And there, while the masts tuned a
melancholy dirge, he had studied the ships in disbelief with his glass.
Four galleons anchored at the river mouth. Portuguese men-of-war. Each
easily a thousand ton, twice the size of the _Discovery_.
He had sorted quickly through his options. Strike sail and heave to, on
the odds they may leave? It was too late. Run up Portuguese colors, the
old privateers' ruse, and possibly catch them by surprise? Unlikely.
Come about and run for open sea? Never. That's never an English
seadog's way. No, keep to windward and engage. Here in the bay.
"Mackintosh!" Hawksworth turned to see the quartermaster already poised
expectantly on the main deck. "Order Malloyre to draw up the gunports.
Have the sails wet down and see the cookroom fire is out."
"Aye, sir. This'll be a bloody one."
"What counts is who bleeds most. Get every able man
on station."
As Hawksworth turned to check the whipstaff, the long wooden lever that
guided the ship's rudder, he passingly noted that curious conflict of
body sensation he remembered from two encounters in years past: once,
when on the Amsterdam run he had seen privateers suddenly loom off the
coast of Scotland, and then on his last voyage through the
Mediterranean, when his convoy first spotted the Turkish pirate
galleys. While his mind calculated the elements of a strategy, coolly
refining each individual detail, his stomach belied his rational facade
and knotted in instinctive, primal fear. And he had asked himself
whether this day his mind or his body would prevail. The odds were very
bad, even if they could keep the wind. And if the Portuguese had
trained gun crews . . .
Then he spotted the Indian pilot, leaning casually against the steering
house, his face expressionless. He wore a tiny moustache and long,
trimmed sideburns. And unlike the English seamen, all barefoot and
naked to the waist, he was still dressed formally, just as when he came
aboard. A fresh turban of white cotton, embroidered in a delicate
brown, was secured neatly about the crown of his head, exposing his
long ears and small, jeweled earrings. A spotless yellow cloak covered
the waist of his tightly tailored blue trousers.
Damn him. Did he somehow know? Did he steer us into a trap?
Seeming to read Hawksworth's thoughts, the pilot broke the silence
between them, his Turki heavily accented with his native Gujarati.
"This is your first test. Officers of the Moghul's army are doubtless
at the shore, observing. What will you do?"
"What do you think we'll do? We'll stand the bastards. And with
Malloyre's gunners I think we can . . ."
"Then permit me an observation. A modest thought, but possibly useful.
Do you see, there"--he pulled erect and pointed toward the shore--"hard
by the galleons, there where the seabirds swirl in a dark cloud? That
is the river mouth. And on either side are many sandbars, borne there
from the river's delta. Along the coast beyond these, though you cannot
see them now, are channels, too shallow for the draft of a galleon but
perhaps safe for these frigates. Reach them and you will be beyond
range of all Portuguese ordnance save their stern demi-culverin. Then
they will be forced to try boarding you by longboat, something their
infantry does poorly and with great reluctance."
"Are there channels on both sides of the river mouth? To windward and
to leeward?"
"Certainly, my _feringhi _ captain." He examined Hawksworth with a
puzzled stare. "But only a fool would not hold to port, to windward."
Hawksworth studied the shoreline with the glass, and an audacious
gamble began to take form in his mind. Why try to keep both frigates to
windward? That's what they'll expect, and any moment now they'll weigh
and beat to windward also. And from their position, they'll probably
gain the weather gage, forcing us to leeward, downwind where we can't
maneuver. That means an open fight--when the _Resolve_ can barely muster
a watch. How can she crew the gun deck and man the sheets? But maybe
she won't have to. Maybe there's another way.
"Mackintosh." The quartermaster was mounting the quarterdeck
companionway. "Order the mains'l and fores'l reefed. And the tops'ls
shortened. We'll heave to while we run out the guns. And signal the
_Resolve_ while I prepare orders for Kerridge."
The grizzled Scotsman stood listening in dismay, and Hawksworth read
his thoughts precisely in his eyes. There's nae time to heave to. And
for wha'? We strike an inch o' canvas an' the fornicatin' Portugals'll
take the weather gage sure. Ha' you nae stomach for a fight? Why na
just haul down colors and ha' done with it?
But he said nothing. He turned automatically and bellowed orders aloft.
Hawksworth felt out the morning breeze, tasting its cut, while he
watched the seamen begin swinging themselves up the shrouds, warming
the morning air with oaths as the _Discovery _pitched and heeled in the
chop. And then he turned and strode down the quarterdeck companionway
toward the Great Cabin to prepare orders for the _Resolve_. As he
passed along the main deck, half a dozen crewmen were already unlashing
the longboat from its berth amidships.
And when he emerged again on deck with the oilskin- wrapped dispatch,
after what seemed only moments, the longboat was already launched,
oarsmen at station. He passed the packet to Mackintosh without a word,
then mounted the companionway ladder back to the quarterdeck.
The Indian pilot stood against the banister, shaded by the lateen sail,
calmly studying the galleons.
"Three of these I know very well." His accented Turki was almost lost
in a roll of spray off the stern. "They are the _St. Sebastian_, the
_Bon Jesus_, and the _Bon Ventura_. They arrived new from Lisbon last
year, after the monsoon, to patrol our shipping lanes, to enforce the
regulation that all Indian vessels purchase a trading license from
authorities in Goa."
"And what of the fourth?"
"It is said she berthed in Goa only this spring. I do not know her
name. There were rumors she brought the new Viceroy, but early, before
his four-year term began. I have never before seen her north, in these
waters."
My God. Hawksworth looked at the warships in dismay. Is this the course
of the Company's fortune? A voyage depending on secrecy blunders across
a fleet bearing the incoming Viceroy of Goa. The most powerful
Portuguese in the Indies.
"They are invincible," the pilot continued, his voice still matter-of-
fact. "The galleons own our waters. They have two decks of guns. No
Indian vessel, even the reckless corsairs along our southern coast of
Malabar, dare meet them in the open sea. Owners who refuse to submit
and buy a Portuguese trading license must sail hundreds of leagues off
course to avoid their patrol."
"And what do you propose? That we heave to and strike our colors?
Without even a fight?" Hawksworth was astonished by the pilot's casual
unconcern. Is he owned by the Portugals too?
"You may act as you choose. I have witnessed many vain
boasts of English bravery during my brief service aboard your ship. But
an Indian captain would choose prudence at such a time. Strike colors
and offer to pay for a license. Otherwise you will be handled as a
pirate."
"No Englishman will ever pay a Portugal or a Spaniard for a license to
trade. Or a permit to piss." Hawksworth turned away, trying to ignore
the cold sweat beading on his chest. "We never have. We never will."
The pilot watched him for a moment, and then smiled.
"You are in the seas off India now, Captain. Here the Portuguese have
been masters for a hundred years." His voice betrayed a trace of
annoyance at Hawksworth's seeming preoccupation, and he moved closer.
"You would do well to hear me out. We know the Portuguese very well.
Better perhaps than you. Their cruelties here began a full century ago,
when the barbarous captain Vasco de Gama first discovered our Malabar
Coast, near the southern tip of India. He had the Portuguese nose for
others' wealth, and when he returned again with twenty ships, our
merchants rose against him. But he butchered their fleet, and took
prisoners by the thousand. He did not, however, simply execute them.
First he cut away their ears, noses, and hands and sent these to the
local raja, recommending he make a curry. Next a Portuguese captain
named Albuquerque came with more warships to ravage our trade in the
north, that on the Red Sea. And when servants of Islam again rose up to
defend what is ours, Allah the Merciful once more chose to turn his
face from them, leaving all to defeat. Soon the infidel Portuguese came
with many fleets, and in a span no more than a male child reaching
manhood, had seized our ocean and stolen our trade."
The pilot's face remained blandly expressionless as he continued, but
he reached out and caught Hawksworth's sleeve. "Next they needed a
Portuguese trading station, so they bribed pirates to help storm our
coastal fortress at Goa, an island citadel with a deep port. And this
place they made the collection point for all the pepper, spices,
jewels, dyes, silver, and gold they have plundered from us. They lacked
the courage to invade India herself, as the Moghuls did soon after, so
they made our sea their infidel empire. It is theirs, from the coast of
Africa, to the Gulf of Persia, to the Molucca Islands. And they seek
not merely conquest, or enforced commerce, but also our conversion to
their religion of cruelty. They have flooded our ports with ignorant
priests. To them this is a crusade against Islam, against the one True
Faith, a crusade that has triumphed--for a time--where barbarous
Christian land assaults on our holy Mecca have always failed."
Then the pilot turned directly to Hawksworth and a smile flickered
momentarily across his lips. "And now you English have come to
challenge them by sea. You must pardon me if I smile. Even if you
prevail today, which I must tell you I doubt, and even if one day more
of your warships follow and drive them from our seas entirely--even if
all this should take place, you will find your victory hollow. As
theirs has been. For we have already destroyed them. The way India
consumes all who come with arms. The ancient way. They have robbed our
wealth, but in return we have consumed their spirit. Until at last they
are left with nothing but empty commodity. It will be no different for
you, English captain. You will never have India. It is India who will
have you."
He paused and looked again toward the galleons, their sails swelling on
the horizon. "But today I think the Portuguese will spare us the
trouble."
Hawksworth examined the pilot, struggling to decipher his words. "Let
me tell you something about England. All we ask is trade, for you and
for us, and we don't have any priests to send. Only Catholic traders do
that. And if you think we'll not stand well today, you know even less
about the English. The thing we do best is fight at sea. Our sea dogs
destroyed the entire navy of Spain twenty years ago, when they sent
their Armada to invade England, and even to this day the Spaniards and
Portugals have never understood our simple strategy. They still think a
warship's merely a land fortress afloat. All they know to do is throw
infantry against a ship and try to board her. The English know sea
battles are won with cannon and maneuverability, not soldiers."
Hawksworth directed the pilot's gaze down the _Discovery_.
The ship was of the new English "race-built" class, low in the water
and swift. Absent were the bulky superstructures on bow and stern that
weighed down a galleon, the "castles" that Spanish and Portuguese
commanders used to stage infantry for boarding an enemy vessel. A full
thirty years before, the English seaman and explorer John Hawkins had
scoffed at these, as had Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh. They saw
clearly that the galleons' towering bow and stem, their forecastle and
poop, slow them, since the bluff beamy hull needed to support their
weight wouldn't bite the water. A superstructure above decks serves
only to spoil a warship's handling in a breeze, they declared, and to
lend a better target to an English gunner.
"Your ships assuredly are smaller than Portuguese galleons, I agree,"
the pilot volunteered after a pause, "but I see no advantage in this."
"You'll see soon enough. The _Discovery _may be low, but she'll sail
within six points of the wind, and she's quicker on the helm than
anything afloat."
Hawksworth raised the glass and studied the galleons again. As he
expected they were beating to windward, laboring under a full head of
canvas.
Good. Now the _Resolve_ can make her move.
The longboat was returning, its prow biting the trough of each swell,
while on the _Resolve_ seamen swarmed the shrouds and rigging.
Hawksworth watched with satisfaction as his sister ship's main course
swiveled precisely into the breeze and her sprits'l bellied for a run
down the wind. Her orders were to steer to leeward, skirting the edge
of the galleons' cannon range.
And if I know the Portugals, he told himself, they'll be impatient
enough to start loosing round after round of shot at her, even from a
quarter mile off. It takes courage to hold fire till you're under an
enemy's guns, but only then do you have accuracy. Noise and smoke are
battle enough for most Portugals, but the main result is to overheat
and immobilize their cannon.
As the _Discovery_ lay hove to, biding time, the _Resolve_ cut directly
down the leeward side of the galleons, laboring
under full press of sail, masts straining against the load. The Indian
pilot watched the frigate in growing astonishment, then turned to
Hawksworth.
"Your English frigates may be swift, but your English strategy is
unworthy of a common _mahout_, who commands an old she-elephant with
greater cunning. Your sister frigate has now forfeited the windward
position. Why give over your only advantage?"
Even as he spoke the four Portuguese warships, caught beating to
windward, began to shorten sail and pay off to leeward to intercept the
_Resolve_, their bows slowly crossing the wind as they turned.
"I've made a gamble, something a Portugal would never do," Hawksworth
replied. "And now I have to do something no Englishman would ever do.
Unless outgunned and forced to." Before the pilot could respond,
Hawksworth was gone, heading for the gun deck.
The ring of his boots on the oak ladder leading to the lower deck was
lost in the grind of wooden trucks, as seamen threw their weight
against the heavy ropes and tackles, slowly hauling out the guns. The
_Discovery_ was armed with two rows of truck-mounted cast-iron
culverin, and she had sailed with twenty-two barrels of powder and
almost four hundred round shot. Hawksworth had also stowed a supply of
crossbar shot and deadly langrel--thin casings filled with iron
fragments--for use against enemy rigging and sail at close quarters.
Shafts of dusty light from the gunports and overhead scuttles relieved
the lantern-lit gloom, illuminating the massive beams supporting the
decks above. Sleeping hammocks were lashed away, but the space was
airless, already sultry from the morning sun, and the rancid tang of
sweat mixed with fresh saltpeter from the gunpowder caught in
Hawksworth's mouth, bittersweet.
He walked down the deck, alert to the details that could spell victory
or loss. First he checked the wooden tubs of vinegared urine and the
long swabs stationed between the cannon, used for cleaning burning
fragments of metal from the smoking barrels after each round. Fail to
swab a barrel and there could be an unplanned detonation when the next
powder charge was tamped into place. Then he counted the budge-barrels
of powder, now swathed in water-soaked blankets to fend off sparks, and
watched as Edward Malloyre, the man some called the best master gunner
in England, inspected each cannon's touchhole as its lead plate was
removed, assuring himself it had not corroded from the gases expelled
during their last gunnery practice, in the Mozambique Channel.
"Master Malloyre."
"Aye, sir, all's in order. We'll hand the Spanish bastards a taste o'
English iron." Malloyre, who had never troubled to differentiate
Portugal from Spain, was built like a bear, with short bowed legs and a
tree-stump frame. He drew himself erect, his balding pate easily
clearing the rugged overhead beams, and searched the gloom. "The
Worshipful Company may ha' signed on a sorry lot o' pimpin' apple
squires, but, by Jesus, I've made Englishmen o' them. My sovereign to
your shilling we hole the pox-rotted Papists wi' the first round."
"I'll stand the wager, Malloyre, and add the last keg of brandy. But
you'll earn it. I want the portside battery loaded with crossbar
forward, and langrel aft. And set the langrel for the decks, not the
sail."
Malloyre stared at him incredulously. The command told him immediately
that this would be a battle with no quarter. The use of langrel against
personnel left no room for truce. Then suddenly the true implications
of Hawksworth's command hit him like a blow in the chest. "That shot's
for close quarters. We lay alongside, and the bastards'll grapple and
board us sure. Swarm us like curs on a bitch."
"That's the order, Malloyre. Be quick on it. Set the starboard round
first. And light the linstocks." Hawksworth turned to count the shot
and absently picked up one of the linstocks lying on deck--an iron-
plated staff used to set off a cannon--fingering the oil-soaked match
rope at its tip and inhaling its dank musk. And the smell awoke again
the memory of that last day two years before in the Mediterranean, with
Turkish pirate galleys fore and aft, when there had been no quarter,
and no hope . . .
"Beggin' your pardon, sir." Malloyre's voice was urgent, bringing him
back. "What's the firin' orders?"
"Just fire the starboard round as a broadside, and set for the lower
gun deck."
"Aye aye, sir." He paused. "And Lord Jesus pray we'll live to swab
out."
Malloyre's parting words would have followed him up the ladder to the
main deck, but they were swallowed in the muffled roll of cannon fire
sounding over the bay. The galleons were spreading, circling the
_Resolve_ as they bore down upon her, and they had begun to vomit round
after round, jets of water randomly around the frigate as she plunged
toward the shallows and safety. Any minute now, Hawksworth told
himself, and she'll be in the shallows. If she doesn't run aground on a
bar.
Then he saw the _Resolve_ begin to come about, reefing and furling her
sails. She's made the shallows. And the Portugals' guns have quieted.
"Permission to set sail, sir. The bleedin' Portugals'll be on her in a
trice." Mackintosh stood on the quarterdeck by the steering house. And
he made no attempt to disguise the anxiety in his eyes.
"Give the Portugals time, Mackintosh, and you'll see their second fatal
mistake. The first was overheating the cannon on their upper decks. The
second will be to short-hand their crews. They're out of cannon range
now, so they'll launch longboats, and assign half the watch as oarsmen.
Here, take the glass. Tell me what you see."
Mackintosh studied the shallows with the telescope, while a smile
slowly grew on his hard face. "I'm a motherless Dutchman. An' there's a
king's guard o' Portugal musketmen loadin' in. Wearin' their damn'd
silver helmets."
They haven't changed in thirty years, Hawksworth smiled to himself. The
Portugals still think their infantry is too dignified to row, so they
assign their crews to the oars and leave their warships shorthanded.
But they won't find it easy to board the _Resolve_ from longboats. Not
with English musketmen in her maintop. And that should give us just
enough time. . . .
"Are all the longboats out yet, Mackintosh?"
"Aye, sir." The quartermaster steadied the glass against the roll of
the ship. "And making for the _Resolve _like they was runnin' from hell
itself."
"Then bear full sail. Two points to windward of the bastard on the
left. Full press, and hoist the spritsail. Keep the wind and pay her
room till we're in range."
With an exultant whoop Mackintosh jabbed the sweat-soaked telescope
toward Hawksworth, and began bellowing orders to the mates. Within
moments sails unfurled and snapped in the wind, sending the
_Discovery_'s bow biting into the chop and hurtling spray over the
bulwarks. Hawksworth kept to the quarterdeck, studying the nearest
warship with the glass. The galleon's forecastle towered above the
horizon now like some Gothic fortress, and with the glass he could make
out pennants blazoned from all her yardarms. Then he turned toward the
Indian pilot, whose gaze was riveted on the Portuguese warships.
"What's the name of the galleon on the left, the large one?" Hawksworth
pointed toward the vessel he had been observing with the glass. "I
can't read it from this distance."
"That one is the _Bon Ventura_. We know her to be heavily armed."
"I'd say she's over a thousand tons burden. I wonder how handy she'll
be with her best men out in the longboats?"
"She'll meet you soon enough, with her full bounty. It is said that
last year she caught and sank a twenty-gun Dutch frigate trading in the
Moluccas."
"She'll still have to come about into the wind." Hawksworth seemed not
to hear the pilot now, so absorbed was he in the looming battle.
As though in answer to his thoughts, the _Bon Ventura _started to heel
slowly about, like an angered bull. But the _Discovery_ now had the
windward position secure, and the Portuguese ship would have to tack
laboriously into the wind. Her canvas was close-hauled and she would be
slow. We've got the weather gage now, Hawksworth told himself, and
we'll hold it. Then he noticed that the second galleon in the row, the
_St. Sebastian_, had also begun wearing around, bringing her stern
across the wind as she too turned to meet the _Discovery_.
"They've deciphered our plan," Hawksworth said quietly to himself, "and
now it's two of the bastards we'll face. But with luck we'll engage the
_Bon Ventura_ before the _St. Sebastian _can beat to range. And the
_Bon Ventura_ is drawing away from the fleet. That bit of bravado will
cost her."
The _Discovery _was closing rapidly on the _Bon Ventura_. In minutes
they would be within range. Mackintosh was at the whipstaff now,
holding their course, his senses alert to every twist in the wind. He
involuntarily clenched and unclenched his teeth, while his knuckles
were bloodless white from his grip on the hardwood steering lever.
Hawksworth raised the glass again, knowing what he hoped to see.
"The Portugals have just made their third mistake, Mackintosh." He
tried to mask his excitement. "They've sealed the lower gunports to
shut out water while they're tacking. So after they get position
they'll still have to run out the lower guns."
"Aye. That's why two-deckers won't buy a whore's chastity on a day like
this. But they'll have the upper guns on us soon enough."
"Wait and see, Mackintosh. I'll warrant their upper guns are overheated
by now. They'll think twice about trying to prime them just yet.
They'll have to wait a bit. Perhaps just long enough for us to get
alongside. Then the upper guns'll touch nothing but our rigging."
The breeze freshened even more, driving the _Discovery _rapidly toward
her target. Mackintosh eyed the galleon nervously, knowing the frigate
was heavily outgunned. Finally he could bear the tension no longer.
"We've got range now. Permission to bring her about."
"Steady as she goes. They're slow on the helm." Hawksworth glanced at
the line of seamen along the port side, untying bundles of musket
arrows and lighting the linstock. "Bosun! Are the men at stations?"
"Aye, sir." A gravel voice sounded through the din. "Stocks were a bit
damp, but I warrant the hellish sun's dryin' 'em out. We'll give the
fornicators a fine English salute."
Hawksworth gauged the galleon's course, estimating her speed and her
ability to maneuver. Then he saw her start coming about in the water,
turning to position the starboard battery for a broadside. Gunports on
the lower deck flipped up and cannon began slowly to emerge, like hard
black fangs. Nervous sweat began to bead on Mackintosh's brow as the
_Discovery _held her course directly down the galleon's windward side.
The _Bon Ventura_'s broadside battery was not yet set, but a sudden
burst of black smoke from her starboard bow-chaser sent a ball smashing
through the _Discovery's _quarter gallery, removing much of its ornate
embellishment. Then came another flare of smoke and flame, hurtling a
second ball through the lateen sail above Mackintosh's head. The
quartermaster went pale, and looked imploringly at Hawksworth.
"Steady as she goes, Mackintosh, they still haven't fully set their
guns." The knot in Hawksworth's stomach was like a searing ball of
fire. God, for a brandy. But we've got to hold till we've got sure
range. To come about now would keep our distance, and mean a classic
battle. One we're sure to lose.
He pushed away the realization of the immense chance they were taking.
But now there was no turning back, even if he wanted. Finally he could
bear it no longer. God make it right.
"Now, Mackintosh! Bring her hard about!"
The quartermaster threw his weight against the whipstaff, shouting
orders to the two seamen on the deck below to haul the tackles on the
tiller, helping him flip the rudder. Then he turned and bellowed
commands to the mates.
"Hands to the braces. Bring her hard about."
The seamen poised incredulously in the maintop and foretop cheered as
they began to haul in the ropes securing the yards, and in moments the
sails swiveled off the wind. The _Discovery _careened in the chopping
seas, responding readily to the shift in rudder and canvas. By this
time Hawksworth was standing over the scuttle above the gun deck,
shouting to Malloyre.
"Coming about. Prepare to fire the starboard battery when your guns
bear."
The _Discovery_ had wheeled a sharp arc in the water, laying herself
broadside to the galleon, hardly fifty yards away. The English seamen
aloft stared mutely at the towering forecastle of the Portuguese
warship, most never before having seen a galleon at close range.
Although the guns on her upper deck were still silent, had they spoken
now they would have touched nothing but the frigate's tops'ls. But as
the galleon turned, the cannon on her lower deck were coming into final
position. In moments she would lay the _Discovery_ with a broadside.
Hawksworth watched her carefully, calculating, and then the knot in his
stomach dissolved like ice in the sun. The _Discovery _would be in
position seconds ahead.
Malloyre's command to fire cut the awe-stricken silence. The next
instant a low roar seemed to emanate from all the timbers of the
English frigate, while red-tipped flame tongued from her starboard
side. The ship heeled dangerously sideways, while black smoke, acrid
and searing, boiled up through the scuttles and hatch, as though
propelled on its way by the round of cheers from below decks, the
traditional salute of ship's gunners. Hawksworth later remembered
noting that the battery had fired in perfect unison, not losing the set
of a single gun by the ship's recoil.
A medley of screams came first, piercing the blackened air. Then the
smoke drifted downwind, over the side of the _Bon Ventura_, revealing a
savage incision where her lower gun deck had once been. Cannon were
thrown askew, and the mangled forms of Portuguese gunners, many with
limbs shattered or missing, could be seen through the splintered hull.
But Hawksworth did not pause to inspect the damage; he was already
yelling the next orders to Mackintosh, hoping to be heard above the
din. The advantage of surprise would be short-lived.
"Pay off the helm! Bring her hard about!"
Again the rudder swiveled in its locks, while seamen aloft
hauled the sheets and braces, but this time the _Discovery _came about
easily, using the wind to advantage. As he turned to check the
whipstaff, Hawksworth heard a high-pitched ricochet off the steering
house and sensed a sudden dry numbness in his thigh. Only then did he
look up to see the line of Portuguese musketmen on the decks of the
_Bon Ventura_, firing sporadically at the English seamen on decks and
aloft.
Damn. A lucky shot by some Lisbon recruit. He seized a handful of
coarse salt from a bucket by the binnacle and pressed it against the
blood. A flash of pain passed briefly through his consciousness and
then was forgotten. The _Discovery's _stern had crossed the wind. There
was no time to lose. He moved down the companionway to again shout
orders to Malloyre on the gun deck. "Set for the fo'c'sle and rigging.
Fire as your guns bear."
The _Bon Ventura_ still lay immobile, so unexpected had been the
broadside. But a boarding party of Portuguese infantry was poised on
the galleon's forecastle superstructure, armed with swords and pikes,
ready to fling grapples and swing aboard the frigate. The Portuguese
had watched in helpless amazement as the _Discovery_ completely came
about and again was broadside. Suddenly the captain of the infantry
realized what was in store and yelled frantically at his men to take
cover. But his last command was lost in the roar of the _Discovery's
_guns.
This time flames and smoke erupted from the _Discovery's _portside
battery, but now it spewed knife-edged chunks of metal and twisting
crossbars. Again the screams came first, as the musketmen and infantry
on the fo'c'sle were swept across the decks in the deadly rain.
Crossbars chewed through the galleon's mainsail, parting it into two
flapping remnants, while the rigging on the foremast was blown by the
boards, tangling and taking with it a party of musketmen stationed in
the foretop. Now the galleon bobbed helpless in the water, as the last
seamen remaining on the shrouds plunged for the decks and safety.
"When you're ready, Mackintosh."
The quartermaster signaled the bosun, and a line of
seamen along the port gunwales touched musket arrows to the lighted
linstock and took aim. Streaks of flame forked into the tattered
rigging of the _Bon Ventura_, and in moments her canvas billowed red.
Again the Portuguese were caught unaware, and only a few manned water
buckets to extinguish the burning shreds of canvas drifting to the
deck.
They were almost alongside now, but no Portuguese infantry would pour
down the side of the forecastle onto their decks. The galleon's decks
were a hemorrhage of the wounded and dying.
"By Jesus, 'tis a sight for English eyes." Edward Malloyre's blackened
face, streaked with sweat, bobbed up through the hatch over the gun
deck, and he surveyed the wreckage of the _Bon Ventura_. "Had to give
'er a look, Cap'n. See if my lads earn'd their biscuit." He beamed with
open pride.
"Malloyre, how does it stand below decks?" Hawksworth yelled from the
quarterdeck.
"Starboard side's swabbed out. How shall we load 'em, sir?" Malloyre
leaned backward to gain a better look at the galleon, which now towered
above them.
"Round shot, and run them out fast as you can."
"Aye, sir. An' no more close quarters if you please. Ne'er want to be
this close to one o' the bastards again." Malloyre started to retreat
through the hatch, but then he turned, paused for a second, and yelled
at Hawksworth. "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. I knew all along 'twas best
to pull alongside and lay 'em wi' crossbar. Just wanted to give the
lads a bit o' a scare. Keep 'em jumpin'."
Hawksworth waved his hand and watched as Malloyre's pudgy frame dropped
through the gun-deck hatch like a rabbit diving for its warren.
Mackintosh was standing on the main deck, his tangled red mane
blackened with smoke, watching as the _Discovery _drifted slowly toward
the side of the bobbing galleon. Then, when they were only feet away,
he signaled the bosun, and a line of English seamen lit the waiting
fuses and began to loft clay powder pots across the waist of the _Bon
Ventura_, now almost above their heads. When they had finished, he
passed orders and the _Discovery _began to pull away, before her sails
could ignite. Then one by one the powder pots started to explode,
spewing burning sulphur over the Portuguese vessel's decks.
Hawksworth watched the carnage, and asked himself if he had been right
to do what he'd done. They'd have sunk us. Cut down the men and taken
the officers and merchants to a Goa prison. And then what? We couldn't
have sunk them with cannon in a week. The only choice was fire.
Then he turned to see the _St. Sebastian _making toward them. Her
cannon were already run out, and at any moment she would start coming
about for a broadside. Again he felt the throb in his thigh, and it
triggered a wave of fear that swept upward from his stomach. The Indian
pilot stood next to him, also watching the approaching galleon.
"I have seen a miracle, Captain. Allah the Compassionate has watched
over you today." The pilot's face showed none of the strain of battle.
And his clothes were still spotless, oddly immune from the oily smoke
that blackened all the English seamen. "But I fear there cannot be two
miracles on the same morning. You are about to pay for your fortune.
Perhaps there is still time to strike your colors and save the lives of
your men."
"We surrender now and we'll rot in a Goa prison forever. Or be pulled
apart on the _strappado_." Hawksworth glared back. "And I seem to
recall the Quran says 'Do not falter when you've gained the upper
hand.'"
"You do not have the upper hand, my Captain, and the Holy Quran speaks
only of those who trust in Allah, the Merciful. . . ." His voice
trailed off as he turned to stare at Hawksworth. "It is not common for
a _feringhi_ to know the Holy Quran. How is it you--?"
"I just spent two years in a Turkish prison, and I heard little else."
Hawksworth turned and was testing the wind, weighing his options. The
_St. Sebastian _was almost on them. Her cannon were already run out,
and at any moment she would start coming about for a broadside. He
could still hear the trucks of the cannon below decks, as the starboard
battery was being run out, and he knew the portside crews were only now
beginning to swab the last glowing shreds of metal from the cannon
barrels.
Good God, there's no time to set the ordnance. They'll blow us to hell.
He deliberated for a long moment, weighing his options. As he watched,
the _St. Sebastian _began to shorten sail, preparing to come about and
fire. Only minutes remained. Then he noticed that the wind on the
burning _Bon Ventura's _superstructure was drifting her in the
direction of the approaching _St. Sebastian_, and he hit on another
gamble. They've shortened sail in order to come about, which means
they're vulnerable. Now if I can make them try to take their bow across
the wind, with their sails shortened . . .
"Mackintosh, take her hard about! Set the courses for a port tack."
Once again the _Discovery_ heeled in the water, her stern deftly
crossing the wind, and then she was back under full sail, still to
windward of the burning galleon. The sudden tack had left the burning
_Bon Ventura _directly between the English frigate and the approaching
galleon. The _Discovery _pulled away, keeping the wind, forcing the
galleon to tack also if she would engage them. Hawksworth watched,
holding his breath as Portuguese seamen began to man the sheets,
bringing the _St. Sebastian's _bow into the wind.
It was fatal. The approaching galleon had shortened too much sail in
preparation to come about for the broadside, and now she lacked the
momentum to cross the wind. Instead the sluggish, top-heavy warship
hung in stays, her sails slack, her bulky bow fighting the wind,
refusing to pay off onto the opposite tack. All the while the _Bon
Ventura_ was drifting inexorably toward her, flaming. I was right,
Hawksworth thought. She didn't have the speed to bring her bow around.
With his glass he watched the galleon's captain order her back to the
original tack. But time had run out.
Blinding explosions suddenly illuminated the gunports of the burning
_Bon Ventura_, as powder barrels on the gun decks ignited, first the
upper and then the lower. In only moments the fire found the powder
room aft of the orlop deck, and as the English seamen looked on
spellbound the galleon seemed to erupt in a single cloud of fire,
rocketing burning timbers and spars across the sea's surface. The
mainmast, flaming like a giant taper, snapped and heaved slowly into
the fo'c'sle. Then the superstructure on the stern folded and dropped
through the main deck, throwing a plume of sparks high into the morning
air.
Although the _St. Sebastian _had righted herself, she still had not
regained speed, for now the sails had lost their luff and sagged to
leeward. Why isn't she underway, Hawksworth asked himself, surely
she'll circle and engage us? He looked again with the glass and the
reason became clear. The Portuguese crewmen on the _St. Sebastian_ had
begun throwing themselves into the sea, terrified at the sight of the
_Bon Ventura's _blazing hull drifting slowly across their bow. The wind
had freshened again and was pushing the burning galleon rapidly now.
The blaze had become an inferno, fueled by casks of coconut oil stored
below decks on the galleon, and Hawksworth involuntarily shielded his
eyes and face from the heat that, even at their distance, seared the
_Discovery_. As he watched, the drifting _Bon Ventura _suddenly lurched
crazily sideways, and then came the sound of a coarse, grinding impact,
as her burning timbers sprayed across the decks of the _St. Sebastian_.
In moments the second galleon was also an abandoned inferno, her crew
long since afloat in the safety of the sea, clinging to debris and
making for shore.
"Allah has been merciful twice to you in one morning, Captain. I had
never before known the extent of His bounty. You are a man most
fortunate." The pilot's words, spoken softly and with pronounced
gravity, were almost drowned in the cheers that engulfed the decks and
rigging of the _Discovery_.
"The battle's just begun. Boarding parties are at the _Resolve_, and
there are two more galleons." Hawksworth reached for the glass by the
binnacle.
"No, Captain, I doubt very much the Portuguese will trouble you
further. Your luck has been too exceptional. But they will return
another day." The pilot squinted toward the shore, as though confirming
something he knew should be there.
Hawksworth trained his glass on the two galleons that still held the
_Resolve_ pinned in the shallows. They were heeling about, preparing to
run southward on the wind under full press of sail. He also realized
their longboats had been abandoned. Some were following futilely after
the retreating galleons, while others were already rowing toward the
river mouth. The English frigate had been forgotten. Then he noted that
although pennants no longer flew from the yardarms of the galleons, the
large, unnamed vessel had run out a brilliant red ensign on her poop
staff. He studied it carefully, then turned to the pilot, extending the
glass.
"Take a look and tell me what the colors are on the large man-of-war.
I've never seen them before."
The pilot waved away the telescope with a smile. "I need no Christian
device to tell you that. We all know it. With all your fortune, you
have failed to understand the most important thing that happened
today."
"And what is that?"
"Those are the colors of the Viceroy of Goa, flown only when he is
aboard his flagship. You have humiliated him today. The colors speak
his defiance. His promise to you."
As the pilot spoke, Mackintosh came bounding up the companionway to the
quarterdeck, his soot-covered face beaming. "What a bleedin' day! _What
_a bleedin' day!" Then his eyes dimmed for an instant. "But a man'd be
called a liar who told the story."
"How many dead and wounded, Mackintosh?"
"Two maintopmen killed by musket fire. And a bosun's mate took a
splinter in the side, very bad, when the bastards laid us wi' the first
bowchasers. A few other lads took musket fire, but the surgeon'll sew
'em up fine."
"Then break out the last keg of brandy. And see that Malloyre's men get
the first tot. . . but don't forget to send a tankard to the
quarterdeck."
Mackintosh broke an appreciative grin and headed down the companionway
ladder. The sun was baking the decks now, and a swarm of locusts had
appeared from nowhere to buzz about the maintop. The wind was beginning
to slacken in the heat, and silence slowly settled over the
_Discovery_. Hawksworth turned his glass one last time to the large
galleon. He could still make out the ensign over the crests of surf,
blood red in the sun.
CHAPTER THREE
The bells sounded ending the afternoon watch and calling the first dog
watch. Only four hours since noon, but already the morning's carnage
seemed a memory from a distant lifetime. Sultry tropic air, motionless
and stifling, immersed the _Discovery_ as the gaunt-faced seamen
labored to finish securing the mast of the pinnace. Mackintosh had
ordered the pinnace's sail unrolled on deck, and as he inspected the
stitches for rot he alternately reviled the men, the heat, the Company.
Hawksworth had completed the log and stood in the companionway outside
the Great Cabin to watch the preparations, take the air, and exercise
his leg. All the previous night he had stood on the quarterdeck,
keeping the helm and translating for the pilot. And tonight again there
would be no sleep. There's time for a rest now, his weary mind urged,
till the first bell of this watch, half an hour. Then he cursed himself
for his weakness, his readiness to yield, and shoved open the door of
the Great Cabin.
The oil lamp swayed with each roll of the ship, punctuating the
rhythmic creak of the wood paneling and adding to the sweltering heat.
He locked the door, then strode aft to push ajar the two stern windows.
But the stolid air lay inert, refusing to lift. He would have to
prepare the chest in suffocating misery. So be it.
Brushing the hair back from his eyes, he unlocked a bronzed sea chest
and began to extract one by one the articles entrusted to the Company
by King James. First was the letter, in English with a formal copy in
diplomatic Spanish, both scribed on parchment and sealed in a leather
case secured with His Majesty's impression in red wax. The seal, set in
London over seven months before, was soft in the heat now, pliant to
his touch. He surveyed the room for a moment and then his eye hit on
the pair of formal thigh- length stockings the Company had insisted he
pack. Perfect. He bound his hose around the king's letter, knotted it
protectively over the seal, and tossed the bundle into the smaller
wooden chest he would take ashore.
Then he began to transfer the royal presents: a brace of gold-plated
pistols, a half dozen silver-handled swords, a small silver-trimmed
saddle, a set of delicate Norwich crystal, jeweled rings, a leather-
bound mirror, a silver whistle studded with emeralds, a large cocked
hat trimmed in silk, a miniature portrait of King James, and finally, a
dozen bottles of fine English sack. He checked each item for damage and
then packed them tightly into the small chest. Finally he inserted a
tightly fitting false bottom and covered it with a coarse woolen rug.
Then the second packing began. He started with more gifts, these for
port officials, mainly silver-trimmed knives and rings set with small
inexpensive pearls. He also enclosed several boxed sets of English gold
sovereigns, which the Company had requested be distributed as widely as
possible, in hopes they would begin to be accepted.
Finally he looked about the room for personal goods. First he folded in
a new leather jerkin, then next to it packed a new pair of leather
boots. He stared at the boots for a moment, and then removed them while
he carefully wrapped two primed pistols and slid one deep into each
hollow toe. Next to the boots he packed a case of Spanish brandy he had
been saving, for personal use aland. Lastly he took his glistening
English lute from its corner berth, held it for a moment, and tested
the strings. He adjusted the tuning on one string, then wrapped the
lute's melon-shaped body in a silk cloth, and nestled it next to the
brandy.
As he secured the lock on the chest and pocketed the large brass key,
he suddenly asked himself how he would get the chest into India without
its being searched. I'm not a genuine ambassador. I'm the captain of a
merchantman, with no
diplomatic standing. The Company, for all its mercantile wisdom,
neglected to consider that small difficulty.
So I'll just have to sound like an ambassador. That shouldn't be so
hard. Just be impressed with your own importance. And find nothing,
food or lodgings, sufficiently extravagant.
Then he drew himself erect and unlocked the door of the Great Cabin.
Only one thing remained.
"Mackintosh!" The quartermaster was in the pinnace now, fitting the
tiller, and he glanced up in irritation. "Send the pilot to my cabin."
Hawksworth had scarcely seated himself behind the great oak table
before the tall chestnut-skinned man appeared in the doorway.
Hawksworth examined the face again, expressionless and secure, asking
himself its years. Is he thirty; is he fifty? The features seemed cast
from an ageless mold, hard and seamless, immune to time.
"May I be of service?"
"Repeat your name for me." Hawksworth spoke in Turkish. "And tell me
again the business of your vessel."
"My name is Karim Hasan Ali." The reply came smoothly, but almost too
rapidly for Hawksworth to follow. "My ship was the Rahimi, a pilgrim
vessel on her return voyage from Mecca, by way of Aden, to our northern
port of Diu. We carry Muslim pilgrims outbound from India in the
spring, and return after the monsoon. As you assuredly must know, for a
thousand years Mecca has been the shrine all followers of Islam must
visit once in their life. Our cabins are always full."
Hawksworth recalled the vessel, and his astonishment at her size. She
had had five masts and was easily twelve hundred tons, over twice the
burden of the _Discovery_ and greater than anything he had ever seen
before, even the most ambitious Spanish carrack. But when they spotted
her, tacking eastward across the Bay of Cambay, she was unarmed and
hove to almost before they had fired across her bow. Why unarmed, he
had asked himself then, and why strike so readily? Now he understood.
"And you were the pilot for the _Rahimi_?"
"I am called the _musallim_." A note of formality entered the Indian's
voice and he instinctively drew himself more erect.
"Is that the pilot?"
"Yes, but more. Perhaps it is like your first mate. But I am in full
charge of navigation for the _nakuda_, the owner. To you he would be
captain."
"And what was your salary for the voyage?"
"I received two hundred rupees for the trip to Aden, and am allowed two
extra cabins of goods for personal trade."
Hawksworth smiled resignedly to himself, remembering he had
unquestioningly delivered to the _nakuda _a bag of Spanish rials of
eight equivalent to five hundred Indian rupees to buy out the pilot's
contract. Then he spoke.
"Tonight, we go upriver to Surat. You're still in my service and you'll
be pilot."
"I had expected it. I know the river well."
"Will there be any Portugal traders on the river?" Hawksworth searched
his eyes hoping to monitor their truthfulness.
"I would not expect it. Although this year's monsoons are past and the
river has returned to normal, there are new sandbanks. Every season
they shift, becoming more treacherous. Only those of us who know the
river well understand the moods of her sands. I have never seen
_topiwallah _traders in Surat this early in the season." Karim paused,
following Hawksworth's puzzled expression, then continued, with an air
of condescension," _Topiwallah _is our word meaning 'men who wear
hats.' We call Christian traders _topiwallahs_." He fixed Hawksworth
squarely. "And we have other names for their priests."
"Call Christians what you will, but just remember England is not
Portugal." Hawksworth's tone stiffened. "England has rid herself of the
popery that still rules the Spaniards and Portugals. Along with their
fear-mongering Jesuits and their damned Inquisition. It's now treason
to practice Catholic rites in England."
"I have heard something of your petty European squabbles, your
Christian rivalries. Is it your intention now to spread them to India
as well?"
"All England wants is trade. Nothing else." Hawksworth shifted his leg,
leaning forward to tighten the bandage. "I'm here as an ambassador. To
convey the friendship of my king, and his offer of free and open
trade."
"And after you begin this trade, what then? Will you next try to drive
the Portuguese from our ports? So that you can steal away shipping from
our own merchantmen, as they have done, and demand we pay you for a
license to ply our own seas?"
"I told you we only want trade. England has no use for sailing
licenses, or priests. Our only enemies here are the Portugals. And the
damned Hollanders if they start trying to interfere."
Karim studied Hawksworth in silence, fingering his jeweled earring in
thought as he recalled the morning's battle. Two small English merchant
frigates had prevailed over four Portuguese warships, galleons. Never
before, he told himself, have the Portuguese been humiliated before our
eyes. Pigeons must already be winging word of this incredible encounter
to Agra. Separately, no doubt, to the Moghul and to the queen. But
Queen Janahara will know first. As always. And she will know her
Portuguese profits are no longer secure.
And what about Prince Jadar? Yes, the prince will already have heard,
hours ago. What will Prince Jadar decide to do? That's the most
important question now.
"Just tell me about the navigation of the river," Hawksworth continued
unable to decipher Karim's distant expression. "How long will it take
for our pinnace to reach Surat? We cast off at sunset."
"The tide will be running in tonight, and that will aid your oarsmen."
Karim instantly became businesslike. "There will also be a night breeze
off the sea. But the Portuguese have no authority on our river. Once
you are inland you are under the rule of the governor of Surat. . . .
and, of course, Prince Jadar, whom the Moghul has appointed to
administrate this province."
Hawksworth heard the first bell and walked to the stern
windows to monitor the slant of the dying sun and to inhale the fresh
evening air. Then he wheeled and examined Karim, the pilot's face
shadowed in the half light.
"And who are these officials? This governor and prince?"
Karim smiled and carefully secured the fold of his turban. "The
governor administers the port of Surat. He collects trading duties of
the Moghul's court in Agra. Prince Jadar is the son of the Moghul and
the military ruler of Gujarat, this province."
"Then who will I meet in Surat?" Hawksworth groped for a pattern. "The
governor or the prince?"
Again Karim paused, wondering how much to tell, before continuing
evenly, "Neither of these need concern you now. The first official you
must satisfy will be the Shahbandar, what the Moghuls call the
_mutasaddi_. The Shahbandar controls the customs house, the portal for
all who would enter the Moghul's domain. His power over the port is
absolute."
Hawksworth slapped one of the bronze cannon to punctuate his dismay.
In India also! Good Jesus, every Muslin port in the world must have
this same petty official. I've heard that Shahbandar is Persian for
"Lord of the Haven," and if that's true the office is named perfectly.
Every one I've known has had the right to refuse entry to anyone, at
his whim, if bribes are insufficient and no more powerful official
intervenes.
"Who does the Shahbandar here answer to? The governor? The prince? The
Moghul himself? Or somebody _else _you haven't told me about yet?"
Hawksworth tried to push back his rising anxiety.
"Captain, you have, in your guileless _feringhi _way, raised a question
it is wiser not to pursue. I can only assure you the Shahbandar is a
man of importance in Surat, and in India."
"But who should I seek out when we reach Surat?"
At that moment two bells sounded on the quarterdeck, and with them a
ray from the fading sun pierced the stern window, glancing off the oak
boards of the table. A twilight silence seemed to settle uneasily over
the _Discovery_, amplifying the creaking of her boards.
"Captain, I have already told you more than most foreigners know. You
would be wise to prepare now to meet the Shahbandar." Karim rose
abruptly and bowed, palms together, hands at his brow. "You must
forgive me. In Islam we pray at sunset."
Hawksworth stared after him in perplexity as Karim turned and vanished
into the darkened companionway.
Not yet even aland, and already I sense trouble. He fears the
Shahbandar, that's clear enough, but I'm not sure it's for the usual
reasons. Is there some intrigue underway that we're about to be drawn
into, God help us?
He took a deep breath and, fighting the ache in his leg, made his way
out to the quarter gallery on the stern. A lone flying fish, marooned
in the bay from its home in the open sea, burst from the almost placid
waters, glinting the orange sun off its body and settling with a
splash, annoying the seabirds that squabbled over gallery scraps along
the port side. Seamen carrying rations of salt pork and biscuit were
clambering down the companionway and through the hatch leading to the
lower deck and their hammocks. Hawksworth listened to them curse the
close, humid air below, and then he turned to inhale again the land
breeze, permeated with a green perfume of almost palpable intensity.
Following the direction of the sweetened air, he turned and examined
the darkening shore one last time. India now seemed vaguely obscured,
as through a light mist. Or was it merely encroaching darkness? And
through this veil the land seemed somehow to brood? Or did it beckon?
It's my imagination, he told himself. India is there all right, solid
ground, and scarcely a cannon shot away. India, the place of fable and
mystery to Englishmen for centuries. And also the place where a certain
party of English travelers disappeared so many years ago.
That should have been a warning, he told himself. It's almost too
ironic that you're the next man to try to go in. You, of all the men in
England. Are you destined to repeat their tragedy?
He recalled again the story he knew all too well. The man financing
those English travelers almost three decades past
had been none other than Peter Elkington, father of George Elkington,
Chief Merchant on this voyage. Like his son, Peter Elkington was a
swearing, drinking, whoring merchant, a big-bellied giant of a man who
many people claimed looked more and more like King Harry the older and
fatter he got. It was Peter Elkington's original idea those many years
back to send Englishmen to India.
The time was before England met and obliterated the Armada of Spain,
and long before she could hope to challenge the oceanic trade networks
of the Catholic countries--Spain to the New World, Portugal to the East.
In those days the only possible road to India for England and the rest
of Europe still was overland, the centuries-old caravan trail that long
preceded Portugal's secret new sea route around the Cape.
The idea of an English mission overland to India had grown out of Peter
Elkington's Levant Company, franchised by Queen Elizabeth to exploit
her new treaty with the Ottoman Turks, controllers of the caravan trade
between India and the Mediterranean. Through the Levant Company,
English traders could at last buy spices directly at Tripoli from
overland caravans traveling the Persian Gulf and across Arabia, thereby
circumventing the greedy Venetian brokers who for centuries had served
as middlemen for Europe's pepper and spices.
But Peter Elkington wanted more. Why buy expensive spices at the shores
of the Mediterranean? Why not extend England's own trade lines all the
way to India and buy directly?
To gain intelligence for this daring trade expansion, he decided to
finance a secret expedition to scout the road to India, to send a party
of English traders through the Mediterranean to Tripoli, and on from
there in disguise across Arabia to the Persian Gulf, where they would
hire passage on a native trader all the way to the western shore of
India. Their ultimate destination was the Great MoghuFs court, deep in
India, and hidden in their bags would be a letter from Queen Elizabeth,
proposing direct trade.
Eventually three adventurous traders were recruited to go,
led by Roger Symmes of the Levant Company. But Peter Elkington wanted a
fourth, for protection, and he eventually persuaded a young army
captain of some reputation to join the party. The captain--originally a
painter, who had later turned soldier after the death of his wife--was
vigorous, spirited, and a deadly marksman. Peter Elkington promised him
a nobleman's fortune if they succeeded. And he promised to take
responsibility for Captain Hawksworth's eight-year-old son, Brian, if
they failed.
Peter Elkington himself came down to the Thames that cold, gray
February dawn they set sail, bringing along his own son, George--a
pudgy, pampered adolescent in a silk doublet. Young George Elkington
regally ignored Brian Hawksworth, a snub only one of the two still
remembered. As the sails slowly dissolved into the icy mist, Brian
climbed atop his uncle's shoulders to catch a long last glimpse. No one
dreamed that only one of the four would ever see London again.
Letters smuggled back in cipher kept the Levant Company informed of
progress. The party reached Tripoli without incident, made their way
successfully overland through Arabia, and then hired passage on an Arab
trader for her trip down the Persian Gulf. The plan seemed to be
working perfectly.
Then came a final letter, from the Portuguese fortress of Hormuz, a
salt-covered island peopled by traders, overlooking the straits between
the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman, gateway to the Arabian Sea and
India's ports. While waiting at Hormuz for passage on to India, the
English party had been betrayed by a suspicious Venetian and accused of
being spies. The Portuguese governor of Hormuz had nervously imprisoned
them and decreed they be shipped to Goa for trial.
After waiting a few more months for further word, Peter Elkington
finally summoned Brian Hawksworth to the offices of the Levant Company
and read him this last letter. He then proceeded to curse the contract
with Captain Hawksworth that rendered the Levant Company responsible
for Brian's education should the expedition meet disaster.
Peter Elkington admitted his plan had failed, and with that admission,
the Levant Company quietly abandoned its vision of direct trade with
India.
But Brian Hawksworth now had a private tutor, engaged by the Levant
Company, a tousle-haired young apostate recently dismissed from his
post at Eton for his anti-religious views.
This new tutor scorned as dogmatic the accepted subjects of Latin,
rhetoric, and Hebrew--all intended to help Elizabethan scholars fathom
abstruse theological disputations--and insisted instead on mathematics,
and the new subject of science. His anti-clerical outlook also meant he
would teach none of the German in fashion with the Puritans, or the
French and Spanish favored by Catholics. For him all that mattered was
classical Greek: the language of logic, pure philosophy, mathematics,
and science. The end result was that the commoner Brian Hawksworth
received an education far different from, if not better than, that of
most gentlemen, and one that greatly surpassed the hornbook alphabet
and numbers that passed for learning among others of his own class.
To no one's surprise, Brian Hawksworth was his father's son, and he
took naturally to marksmanship and fencing. But his first love came to
be the English lute, his escape from the world of his tutor's hard
numbers and theorems.
It lasted until the day he was fourteen, the day the Levant Company's
responsibility expired. The next morning Brian Hawksworth found himself
apprenticed to a Thames waterman and placed in service on one of the
mud-encrusted ferryboats that plied London's main artery. After three
months of misery and ill pay, he slipped away to take a berth on a
North Sea merchantman. There he sensed at once his calling was the sea,
and he also discovered his knowledge of mathematics gave him an
understanding of navigation few other seamen enjoyed. By then he
scarcely remembered his father, or the luckless expedition to India.
Until the day Roger Symmes appeared alone back in London, almost ten
years after that icy morning the Levant Company's expedition had
sailed. . . .
The _Discovery _groaned, and Hawksworth sensed the wind freshen as it
whipped through the stern quarter gallery and noticed the increasingly
brisk swirl of the tide. Almost time to cast off. As he made his way
back to the Great Cabin for a last check, his thoughts returned again
to London, those many years ago.
He had found Symmes at the offices of the Levant Company, nursing a
tankard of ale as he sat very close to their large roaring fireplace.
He bore little resemblance to the jaunty adventurer Hawksworth
remembered from that long-ago morning on the Thames. Now he was an
incongruous figure, costumed in a tight-fitting new silk doublet and
wearing several large gold rings, yet with a face that was haggard
beyond anything Hawksworth had ever seen. His vacant eyes seemed unable
to focus as he glanced up briefly and then returned his stare to the
crackling logs in the hearth. But he needed no prompting to begin his
story.
"Aye, 'tis a tale to make the blood run ice." Symmes eased open a
button of his ornate doublet and shakily loosened his new ruff collar.
"After the Venetian rogue gets us arrest'd with his damnable lie, the
bastard Portugals clap us in the hold of a coastin' barge makin' for
Goa, in company with near a hundred Arab horses. When we finally make
port, they haul us out of that stink hole and slam us in another, this
time the Viceroy's dungeons. We took ourselves for dead men."
"But what happened to my father?" Hawksworth blinked the sweat from his
eyes, wanting the story but wanting almost more to escape the
overheated, timbered offices that loomed so alien.
"That's the horrible part o' the story. It happen'd the next mornin',
poor luckless bastard. We're all march'd into this big stone-floor'd
room where they keep the _strappado_."
"What's that?"
"Tis a kindly little invention o' the Portugals, lad. First they bind
your hands behind your back and run the rope up over a hangin' pulley
block. Then they hoist you up in the air and set to givin' it little
tugs, makin' you hop like you're dancin' the French lavolta. When they
tire o' the sport, or they're due to go say their rosary beads, they
just give it a good strong heave and pop your arms out o' your
shoulders. Jesuits claim 'twould make a Moor pray to the pope."
Hawksworth found himself watching Symmes's wild eyes as he recounted
the story, and wondering how he could remember every detail of events a
decade past.
"Then this young captain comes in, struttin' bastard, hardly a good
twenty year on him. Later I made a point to learn his name--Vaijantes,
Miguel Vaijantes."
"What did he do?"
"Had to see him, lad. Eyes black and hard as onyx. An' he sports this
sword he's had made up with rubies in the handle. Ne'er saw the likes
o' it, before or since, e'en in India. But he's a Portugal, tho',
through an' through. No doubt on that one."
"But what did he do?"
"Why, he has the guards sling Hawksworth up in the _strappado_, lad,
seein' he's the strongest one o' us. Figur'd he'd last longer, I
suppose, make more sport."
"Vaijantes had them torture my father?"
"Aye. Think's he'll squeeze a confession and be a hero. But ol'
Hawksworth ne'er said a word. All day. By nightfall Vaijantes has
pull'd his arms right out. They carried him out of the room a dead
man."
Hawksworth still remembered how his stomach turned at that moment, with
the final knowledge that his father was not merely missing, or away--as
he had told himself, and others--but had been coldly murdered. He had
checked his tears, lest Symmes see, and pressed on.
"What happened to you, and to the others? Did he torture you next?"
"Would have, not a doubt on't. We all wonder'd who'd be the next one.
Then that night they post a Jesuit down to our cell, a turncoat
Dutchman by the name of Huyghen, who spoke perfect English, thinkin'
he'd cozen us into confessin'. But he hates the Portugals e'en more'n
we do. An' he tells us we'd most likely go free if we'd pretend to turn
Papist. So the next day we blurt out we're actually a band o' wealthy
adventurers in disguise, rich lads out to taste the world, but we've
seen the error o' our ways an' we've decided to foreswear the flesh and
turn Jesuits ourselves. Thinkin' of donatin' everything we own to their
holy order." Symmes paused and nervously drew a small sip from his
tankard of spiced ale. "Vicious Papist bastards."
"Did they really believe you?"
"Guess the Dutchman must've convinc'd 'em somehow. Anyway, our story
look'd square enough to get us out on bail, there bein' no evidence for
the charge o' spyin' in any case. But we'd hardly took a breath of air
before our old friend the Hollander comes runnin' with news the
Viceroy's council just voted to ship us back to Lisbon for trial. That
happens and we're dead men. No question. We had to look to it."
Symmes seemed to find concentration increasingly difficult, but he
extracted a long-stemmed pipe and began stuffing black strands into it
with a trembling hand while he composed himself. Finally he continued.
"Had to leave Goa that very night. What else could we do? So we traded
what little we had for diamonds, sew'd 'em up in our clothes, and waded
the river into India. By dawn we're beyond reach o' the Portugals. In
India. An' then, lad, is when it began."
"What happened?"
"T'would take a year to tell it all. Somehow we eventually got to the
Great Moghul's court. I think he was named Akman. An' we start livin'
like I never thought I'd see. Should've seen his city, lad, made London
look like a Shropshire village. He had a big red marble palace called
Fatehpur Sekri, with jewels common as rocks, an' gold e'erywhere, an'
gardens filled with fountains, an' mystical music like I'd ne'er heard,
an' dancin' women that look'd like angels . . ."
His voice trailed off. "Ah, lad, the women there."
Symmes suddenly remembered himself and turned to examine Hawksworth
with his glassy eyes. "But I fancy you're a bit young to appreciate
that part o' it, lad." Then his gaze returned to the fire and he
rambled on, warming to his own voice. "An' there was poets readin'
Persian, and painters drawin' pictures that took days to do one the
size of a book page. An' the banquets, feasts you're ne'er like to see
this side o' Judgment Day."
Symmes paused to draw on his pipe for a moment, his hand still shaking,
and then he plunged ahead. "But it was the Drugs that did it, lad, what
they call'd affion and bhang, made out o' poppy flowers and some kind
of hemp. Take enough of them and the world around you starts to get
lost. After a while you ne'er want to come back. It kill'd the others,
lad. God only knows how I escap'd."
Then Symmes took up his well-rehearsed monologue about the wealth he'd
witnessed, stories of potential trade that had earned him a place at
many a merchant's table. His tale expanded, becoming ever more
fantastic, until it was impossible to tell where fact ended and wishful
fabrication began.
Although Symmes had never actually met any Indian officials, and though
the letter from Queen Elizabeth had been lost en route, his astonishing
story of India's riches inspired the greed of all England's merchants.
Excitement swelled throughout London's Cheapside, as traders began to
clamor for England to challenge Portugal's monopoly of the sea passage
around the Cape. Symmes, by his inflated, half-imaginary account, had
unwittingly sown the first seeds of the East India Company.
Only young Brian Hawksworth, who nourished no mercantile fantasies,
seemed to realize that Roger Symmes had returned from India quite
completely mad.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Pinnace is afloat, Cap'n. I'm thinkin' we should stow the
goods and be underway. If we're goin'." Mackintosh's silhouette was
framed in the doorway of the Great Cabin, his eyes gaunt in the lantern
light. Dark had dropped suddenly over the _Discovery_, bringing with it
a cooling respite from the inferno of day.
"We'll cast off before the watch is out. Start loading the cloth and
iron-work"--Hawksworth turned and pointed toward his own locked sea
chest--"and send for the purser."
Mackintosh backed through the doorway and turned automatically to
leave. But then he paused, his body suspended in uncertainty for a long
moment. Finally he revolved again to Hawksworth.
"Have to tell you, I've a feelin' we'll na be sailin' out o' this piss-
hole alive." He squinted across the semi-dark of the cabin. "It's my
nose tellin' me, sir, and she's always right."
"The Company's sailed to the Indies twice before, Mackintosh."
"Aye, but na to India. The bleedin' Company ne'er dropped anchor in
this nest o' Portugals. 'Twas down to Java before. With nothin' but a
few Dutchmen to trouble o'er. India's na the Indies, Cap'n. The Indies
is down in the Spice Islands, where seas are open. The ports o' India
belong to the Portugals, sure as England owns the Straits o' Dover. So
beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, this is na the Indies. This might well be
Lisbon harbor."
"We'll have a secure anchorage. And once we're inland the Portugals
can't touch us." Hawksworth tried to hold a tone of confidence in his
voice. "The pilot says he can take us upriver tonight. Under cover of
dark."
"No Christian can trust a bleedin' Moor, Cap'n. An' this one's got a
curious look. Somethin' in his eyes. Can't tell if he's lookin' at you
or na."
Hawksworth wanted to agree, but he stopped himself.
"Moors just have their own ways, Mackintosh. Their mind works
differently. But I can already tell this one's not like the Turks."
Hawksworth still had not decided what he thought about the pilot. It
scarcely matters now, he told himself, we've no choice but to trust
him. "Whatever he's thinking, he'll have no room to play us false."
"Maybe na, but he keeps lookin' toward the shore. Like
he's expectin' somethin'. The bastard's na tellin' us what he knows. I
smell it. The nose, Cap'n."
"We'll have muskets, Mackintosh. And the cover of dark. Now load the
pinnace and let's be on with it."
Mackintosh stared at the boards, shifting and tightening his belt. He
started to argue more, but Hawksworth's voice stopped him.
"And, Mackintosh, order the muskets primed with pistol shot."
Hawksworth recalled a trick his father had once told him about, many
long years past. "If anybody ventures to surprise us, we'll hand them a
surprise in turn. A musket ball's useless in the dark of night, clump
of pistol shot at close quarters is another story."
The prospect of a fight seemed to transform Mackintosh. With a grin he
snapped alert, whirled, and stalked down the companionway toward the
main deck.
Moments later the balding purser appeared, a lifelong seaman with an
unctuous smile and rapacious eyes who had dispensed stores on many a
prosperous merchantman, and grown rich on a career of bribes. He
mechanically logged Hawksworth's chest in his account book and then
signaled the bosun to stow the heavy wooden trunk into the pinnace.
Hawksworth watched the proceedings absently as he checked the edge on
his sword. Then he slipped the belt over his shoulder and secured its
large brass buckle. Finally he locked the stern windows and surveyed
the darkened cabin one last time.
The _Discovery_. May God defend her and see us all home safe. Every
man.
Then without looking back he firmly closed the heavy oak door, latched
it, and headed down the companionway toward the main deck.
Rolls of broadcloth lay stacked along the waist of the ship, and beside
them were muskets and a keg of powder. George Elkington was checking
off samples of cloth as they were loaded irto the pinnace, noting his
selection in a book of accounts.
Standing next to him, watching idly, was Humphrey Spencer, youngest son
of Sir Randolph Spencer. He had shipped the voyage as the assistant to
Elkington, but his real motivation was not commerce but adventure, and
a stock of tales to spin out in taverns when he returned. His face of
twenty had suffered little from the voyage, for a stream of bribes to
the knowing purser had reserved for him the choice provisions,
including virtually all the honey and raisins.
Humphrey Spencer had donned a tall, brimmed hat, a feather protruding
from its beaver band, and his fresh doublet of green taffeta fairly
glowed in the lantern's rays. His new thigh-length hose were an
immaculate tan and his ruff collar pure silk. A bouquet of perfume
hovered about him like an invisible cloud.
Spencer turned and began to pace the deck in distraught agitation,
oblivious to his interference as weary seamen worked around him to drag
rolls of broadcloth next to the gunwales, stacking them for others to
hoist and stow in the pinnace. Then he spotted Hawksworth, and his eyes
brightened.
"Captain, at last you're here. Your bosun is an arrant knave, my life
on't. He'll not have these rogues stow my chest."
"There's no room in the pinnace for your chest, Spencer."
"But how'm I to conduct affairs 'mongst the Moors without a gentleman's
fittings?" He reviewed Hawksworth's leather jerkin and seaboots with
disdain.
Before Hawksworth could reply, Elkington was pulling himself erect,
wincing at the gout as his eyes blazed. "Spencer, you've enough to do
just mindin' the accounts, which thus far you've shown scant aptness
for." He turned and spat into the scuppers. "Your father'd have me make
you a merchant, but methinks I'd sooner school an ape to sing. 'Tis
tradin' we're here for, not to preen like a damn'd coxcomb. Now look to
it."
"You'll accompany us, Spencer, as is your charge." Hawksworth walked
past the young clerk, headed for the fo'c'sle. "The only 'fittings'
you'll need are a sword and musket, which I dearly hope you know enough
to use. Now prepare to board."
As Hawksworth passed the mainmast, bosun's mate John
Garway dropped the bundle he was holding and stepped forward, beaming a
toothless smile.
"Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. Might I be havin' a word?"
"What is it, Garway."
"Would you ask the heathen, sir, for the men? We've been wonderin' if
there's like to be an alehouse or such in this place we're goin'. An' a
few o' the kindly sex what might be friendly disposed, if you follow my
reckonin', sir."
Hawksworth looked up and saw Karim waiting by the fo'c'sle, his effects
rolled in a small woven tapestry under his arm. When the question was
translated, the pilot laid aside the bundle and stepped toward the
group of waiting seamen, who had all stopped work to listen. He studied
them for a moment--ragged and rank with sweat, their faces blotched with
scurvy and their hair matted with grease and lice--and smiled with
expressionless eyes.
"Your men will find they can purchase _arak_, a local liquor as potent
as any I have seen from Europe. And the public women of Surat are
masters of all refinements of the senses. They are exquisite, worthy
even of the Moghul himself. Accomplished women of pleasure have been
brought here from all civilized parts of the world, even Egypt and
Persia. I'm sure your seamen will find the accommodations of Surat
worthy of their expectations."
Hawksworth translated the reply and a cheer rose from the men.
"Hear that, mates?" Master's mate Thomas Davies turned to the crowd,
his face a haggard leer. "Let the rottin' Portugals swab cannon in
hell. I'll be aswim in grog an' snuffin' my wick with a willin' wench.
Heathen or no, 'tis all one, what say?"
A confirming hurrah lifted from the decks and the men resumed their
labor with spirits noticeably replenished.
Hawksworth turned and ascended the companionway ladder to the
quarterdeck, leaving behind the tense bravado. As he surveyed the deck
below from his new vantage, he suddenly sensed an eerie light
enveloping the chip, a curious glow that seemed almost to heighten the
pensive lament of the boards and the lulling melody of wind through the
rigging. Then he realized why.
The moon!
I'd forgotten. Or was I too tired to think? But now . . . it's almost
like daylight. God help us, we've lost the last of our luck.
"Ready to cast off." Mackintosh mounted the companionway to the
quarterdeck, his face now drawn deep with fatigue. "Shall I board the
men?"
Hawksworth turned with a nod, and followed him down to the main deck.
Oarsmen began scrambling down the side of the _Discovery_, a motley
host, shoeless and clad only in powder- smudged breeches. Though a rope
ladder dangled from the gunwales, the seamen preferred to grasp the
dead-eyes, easing themselves onto the raised gunport lids, and from
there dropping the last few feet into the pinnace. They were followed
by George Elkington, who lowered himself down the swaying ladder,
breathing oaths. Hawksworth lingered by the railing, searching the
moonlit horizon and the darkened coast. His senses quickened as he
probed for some clue that would trigger an advance alert. But the
moonlit water's edge lay barren, deserted save for an occasional
beached fishing skiff, its sisal nets exposed on poles to dry. Why the
emptiness? During the day there were people.
Then he sensed Karim standing beside him, also intent on the empty
shore. The pilot's back was to the lantern that swung from the mainmast
and his face was shrouded in shadow. Abruptly, he addressed Hawksworth
in Turki.
"The face of India glories in the moonlight, do you agree? It is
beautiful, and lies at peace."
"You're right about the beauty. It could almost be the coast of Wales."
Hawksworth thought he sensed a powerful presence about Karim now,
something he could not explain, only detect with a troubled intuition.
Then the pilot spoke again.
"Have you prepared yourself to meet the Shahbandar?"
"We're ready. We have samples of English goods. And I'm an ambassador
from King James. There's no reason to deny us entry."
"I told you he is a man of importance. And he already knows, as all who
matter will soon know, of your exceptional fortune today. Do you really
think today's battle will go unnoticed in India?"
"I think the Portugals noticed. And I know they'll be back. But with
luck we'll manage." Hawksworth felt the muscles in his throat tighten
involuntarily, knowing a fleet of warships from Goa would probably be
headed north within a fortnight.
"No, Captain, again you miss my meaning." Karim turned to draw closer
to Hawksworth, flashing a joyless smile. "I speak of India. Not the
Portuguese. They are nothing. Yes, they trouble our seas, but they are
nothing. They do not rule India. Do you understand?"
Hawksworth stiffened, unsure how to respond. "I know the Moghul rules
India. And that he'll have to wonder if the damned Portugals are still
master of his seas."
"Surely you realize, Captain, that the Portuguese's profits are
staggering. Are you also aware these profits are shared with certain
persons of importance in India?"
"You mean the Portugals have bribed officials?" That's nothing new,
Hawksworth thought. "Who? The Shahbandar?"
"Let us say they often give commissions." Karim waved his hand as
though administering a dispensation. "But there are others whom they
allow to invest directly in their trade. The profits give these persons
power they often do not use wisely."
"Are you telling me the Moghul himself invests with the damned
Portugals?" Hawksworth's hopes plummeted.
"On the contrary. His Majesty is an honorable man, and a simple man who
knows but little of what some do in his name. But do you understand
there must be one in his realm who will someday have his place?
Remember he is mortal. He rules like a god, but he is mortal."
"What does this have to do with the Shahbandar? Surely he'd not
challenge the Moghul. And I know the Moghul has sons . . ."
"Of course, he is not the one." Karim's smile was gentle. "But do not
forget the Shahbandar is powerful, more powerful than most realize. He
knows all that happens in India, for his many friends repay their
obligation to him with knowledge. As for you, if he judges your wisdom
worthy of your fortune today, he may choose to aid you. Your journey to
Agra will not be without peril. There are already those in India who
will not wish you there. Perhaps the Shahbandar can give you guidance.
It will be for him to decide."
Hawksworth studied Karim incredulously. How could he know? "Whatever I
may find necessary to do, it will not involve a port official like the
Shahbandar. And a trip to Agra surely would not require his approval."
"But you must find your way." Karim examined Hawksworth with a quick
sidelong glance, realizing he had guessed correctly. "My friend, your
defeat of the Portuguese today may have implications you do not
realize. But at times you talk as a fool, even more than the
Portuguese. You will need a guide on your journey. Believe me when I
tell you."
Karim paused for a moment to examine Hawksworth, as though wondering
how to couch his next words. "Perhaps you should let the stars guide
you. In the Holy Quran the Prophet has said of Allah, 'And he hath set
for you the stars' . . ."
"'That you may guide your course by them."' Hawksworth picked up the
verse, "'Amid the dark of land and sea.' Yes, I learned that verse in
Tunis. And I knew already a seaman steers by the stars. But I don't
understand what bearing that has on a journey to Agra."
"Just as I begin to think you have wisdom, again you cease to listen.
But I think now you will remember what I have said."
"Hawksworth!" Elkington's voice boomed from the pinnace below. "Have we
sail'd a blessed seven month to this nest o' heathens so's to idle
about and palaver?"
Hawksworth turned to see Humphrey Spencer gingerly lowering himself
down the ladder into the pinnace, the feather in his hatband whipping
in the night wind. The oarsmen were at their stations, ready.
"One thing more, Captain." Karim pressed a hand against Hawksworth's
arm, holding him back. "One thing more I will tell you. Many
_feringhi_, foreigners, who come to India are very unwise. Because our
women keep the veil, and dwell indoors, foreigners assume they have no
power, no influence. Do not act as other foolish _feringhi _and make
this mistake. In Surat . . ."
"What women do you mean? The wives of officials?"
"Please, listen. When you reach Surat, remember one last admonition
from the Quran. There it is written, 'As for women from whom you fear
rebellion, admonish them and banish them to beds apart.' But sometimes
a woman too can be strong-willed. She can be the one who banishes her
husband, denying him his rights. If she is important, there is nothing
he can do. Remember. . ."
"Damn it to hell," Elkington's voice roared again, "I'm not likin'
these moonlight ventures. Tis full risk aplenty when you can see who's
holdin' a knife to your throat. But if we're goin', I say let's be done
with it and have off."
Hawksworth turned back to Karim, but he was gone, swinging himself
lightly over the side of the _Discovery _and into the pinnace.
Across the moonlight-drenched swells the _Resolve_ lay quiet, her stern
lantern reassuringly aglow, ready to hoist sail for the cove. And on
the _Discovery_ seamen were at station, poised to follow. Hawksworth
looked once more toward the abandoned shore, troubled, and then dropped
quickly down the side into the pinnace. There was no sound now, only
the cadence of the boards as the _Discovery's _anchor chain argued
against the tide. And then a dull thud as the mooring line dropped onto
the floor planking of the pinnace.
Hawksworth ordered Mackintosh to row with the tide until they reached
the shelter of the river mouth, and then to ship the oars and hoist
sail if the breeze held. He had picked the ablest men as oarsmen, those
not wounded and least touched by scurvy, and next to each lay a heavy
cutlass. He watched Mackintosh in admiration as the quartermaster
effortlessly maneuvered the tiller with one hand and directed the
oarsmen with the other. The moon was even more alive now, glinting off
the Scotsman's red hair.
As the hypnotic rhythm of the oars lulled Hawksworth's mind, he felt a
growing tiredness begin to beg at his senses. Against his will he
started to drift, to follow the moonlight's dancing, prismatic tinge on
the moving crest of waves. And to puzzle over what lay ahead.
Half-dozing, he found his thoughts drawn to the Shahbandar who waited
in Surat, almost like a gatekeeper who held the keys to India. He
mulled Karim's words again, the hints of what would unlock that
doorway, and slowly his waking mind drifted out of reach. He passed
unknowing into that dreamlike state where deepest truth so often lies
waiting, unknown to rationality. And there, somehow, the pilot's words
made perfect sense . . .
"Permission to hoist the sail." Mackintosh cut the pinnace into the
river mouth, holding to the center of the channel. Hawksworth startled
momentarily at the voice, then forced himself alert and scanned the
dark riverbanks. There was still nothing. He nodded to Mackintosh and
watched as the sail slipped quietly up the mast. Soon the wind and tide
were carrying them swiftly, silently. As he watched the run of the tide
against the hull, he suddenly noticed a group of round objects, deep
red, bobbing past.
"Karim." Hawksworth drew his sword and pointed toward one of the balls.
"What are those?"
"A fruit of our country, Captain. The _topiwallahs _call them
'coconuts.'" Karim's voice was scarcely above a whisper, and his eyes
left the shore for only a moment. "They are the last remains of the
August festival."
"What festival is that?"
"The celebration of the Hindu traders. Marking the end of the monsoon
and the opening of the Tapti River to trade. Hindus at Surat smear
coconuts with vermilion and cast them into the Tapti, believing this
will appease the angry life-force of the sea. They also cover barges
with flowers and span them across the harbor. If you were there, you
would hear them play their music and chant songs to their heathen
gods."
"And the coconuts eventually float out to sea?"
"A few, yes. But mostly they are stolen by wicked boys, who swim after
them. These few perhaps their gods saved for themselves."
Hawksworth examined the bobbing balls anew. The coconut was yet another
legend of the Indies. Stories passed that a man could live for days on
the liquor sealed within its straw-matted shell.
The moon chased random clouds, but still the riverbank was illuminated
like day. The damp air was still, amplifying the music of the night--the
buzz of gnats, the call of night birds, even the occasional trumpet of
a distant elephant, pierced the solid wood line on either side of the
narrowing river. Hawksworth tasted the dark, alert, troubled. Where are
the human sounds? Where are the barges I saw plying the river mouth
during the day? I sense an uneasiness in the pilot, an alarm he does
not wish me to see. Damn the moon. If only we had dark.
"Karim." Hawksworth spoke softly, his eyes never long from the dense
rampart of trees along the riverbank.
"What do you wish, Captain?"
"Have you ever traveled up the river before by moonlight?"
"Once, yes, many years ago. When I was young and burning for a woman
after our ship had dropped anchor in the bay. I was only a _karwa_
then, a common seaman, and I thought I would not be missed. I was
wrong. The _nakuda_ discovered me in Surat and reclaimed my wage for
the entire voyage. It was a very hungry time."
"Was the river quiet then, as it is now?"
"Yes, Captain, just the same." Though Karim looked at him directly, the
darkness still guarded his eyes.
"Mackintosh." Hawksworth's voice cut the silence. "Issue the muskets."
His eyes swept along the shore, and then to the narrow bend they were
fast approaching. Karim is lying, he told himself; at last the pilot
has begun to play false with us. Why? What does he fear?
"Aye aye, Cap'n." Mackintosh was instantly alert. "What do you see?"
The sudden voices startled Elkington awake, and his nodding head
snapped erect. "The damn'd Moors have settl'd in for the night. If
you'd hold your peace, I could join 'em. I'll need the full o' my wits
for hagglin' with that subtle lot o' thieves come the morrow. There's
no Portugals. E'en the night birds are quiet as mice."
"Precisely," Hawksworth shot back. "And I would thank you to take a
musket, and note its flintlock is full-cocked and the flashpan dry."
Then he continued, "Mackintosh, strike the sail. And, Karim, take the
tiller."
The pinnace was a sudden burst of activity, as seamen quickly hauled in
the sail and began to check the prime on their flintlocks. With the
sail lashed, their view was unobstructed in all directions. The tide
rushing through the narrows of the approaching bend carried the pinnace
ever more rapidly, and now only occasional help was needed from the
oarsmen to keep it aright.
A cloud drifted over the moon, and for an instant the river turned
black. Hawksworth searched the darkness ahead, silent, waiting. Then he
saw it.
_ "On the boards!"_
A blaze of musket fire spanned the river ahead, illuminating the
blockade of longboats. Balls sang into the water around them while
others splattered off the side of the pinnace or hissed past the mast.
Then the returning moon glinted off the silver helmets of the
Portuguese infantry.
As Karim instinctively cut the pinnace toward the shore, Portuguese
longboats maneuvered easily toward them, muskets spewing sporadic
flame. The English oarsmen positioned themselves to return the fire,
but Hawksworth stopped them.
Not yet, he told himself, we'll have no chance to reload. The first
round has to count. And damn my thoughtlessness, for not bringing
pikes. We could have . . .
The pinnace lurched crazily and careened sideways, hurtling around
broadside to the longboats.
A sandbar. We've struck a damned sandbar. But we've got to face them
with the prow. Otherwise . . .
As though sensing Hawksworth's thoughts, Karim seized
an oar and began to pole the pinnace's stern off the bar. Slowly it
eased around, coming about to face the approaching longboats. No sooner
had the pinnace righted itself than the first longboat glanced off the
side of the bow, and a grapple caught their gunwale.
Then the first Portuguese soldier leaped aboard--and doubled in a flame
of sparks as Mackintosh shoved a musket into his belly and pulled the
trigger. As the other English muskets spoke out in a spray of pistol
shot, several Portuguese in the longboat pitched forward, writhing.
Mackintosh began to bark commands for reloading.
"Half-cock your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast
about to charge . . ."
But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the
bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard.
"Damn the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords."
The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while
each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The
English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves
being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured
aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand.
Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained
Portuguese infantry easily. Thank God there's no more foot room, he
thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . .
At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the
mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved
to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking
covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and
leaped forward, slashing the first soldier through the waist and
sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the
quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a
bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck.
Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third
soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it?
Good God, he'll cut me in half.
Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and
above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging.
It was a pocket pistol.
Did he prime it? Does he know how?
As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol
and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that
melted the soldier's face into red.
He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He
was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the
English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the
mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in horror as
a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the
mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English.
Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned.
He'll kill half the men. The bastard will . . .
A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a
smile with no mirth. In an instant it transmuted to disbelief, while
his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the
Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his
helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still
erect. He stood limp, head cocked sideways, as though distracted during
prayer.
Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest?
Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had
pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.
A low-pitched hum swallowed the sudden silence, as volleys of bamboo
arrows sang from the darkness of the shore. Measured, deadly.
Hawksworth watched in disbelief as one by one the Portuguese soldiers
around them crumpled, a few firing wildly into the night. In what
seemed only moments it was over, the air a cacophony of screams and
moaning death.
Hawksworth turned to Karim, noting fright in the pilot's eyes for the
very first time.
"The arrows." He finally found his voice. "Whose are they?"
"I can probably tell you." The pilot stepped forward and deftly broke
away the feathered tip on one of the shafts still holding the
Portuguese to the mast. As he did so, the other arrows snapped and the
Portuguese slumped against the gunwale, then slipped over the side and
into the dark water. Karim watched him disappear, then raised the arrow
to the moonlight. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw a quizzical
look enter the pilot's eyes.
Before he could speak, lines of fire shot across the surface of the
water, as fire arrows came, slamming into the longboats as they drifted
away on the tide. Streak after streak found the hulls and in moments
they were torches. In the flickering light, Hawksworth could make out
what seemed to be grapples, flashing from the shore, pulling the
floating bodies of the dead and dying to anonymity. He watched
spellbound for a moment, then turned again toward the stern.
"Karim, I asked whose arrows . . ."
The pilot was gone. Only the English seamen remained, dazed and
uncomprehending.
Then the night fell suddenly silent once more, save for the slap of the
running tide against the hull.
BOOK TWO
SURAT-- THE THRESHOLD
CHAPTER FIVE
The room was musty and close, as though the rainy season had
not passed, and the floor was hard mud. Through crude wooden shutters
they could glimpse the early sun stoking anew for the day's inferno,
but now it merely washed the earthen walls in stripes of golden light.
Hawksworth stood by the window examining the grassy square that spanned
out toward the river. The porters, in whose lodge they were confined,
milled about the open area, chanting and sweating as they unloaded
large bales of cotton from the two-wheeled bullock carts that
continually rolled into the square. He steadied himself against the
heavy wooden frame of the window and wondered if his land legs would
return before the day was out.
"God curse all Moors." Mackintosh stooped over the tray resting on the
grease-smudged center carpet and pulled a lid from one of the earthen
bowls. He stared critically at the dense, milky liquid inside, then
gingerly dipped in a finger and took a portion to his lips. He tested
the substance--tangy curds smelling faintly of spice--and his face
hardened.
"Tis damned spoilt milk." He spat fiercely onto the carpet and seized a
piece of fried bread to purge the taste. "Fitter for swine than men."
"What'd they do with the samples?" Elkington sprawled heavily in the
corner, his eyes bloodshot from the all-night vigil upriver. "With no
guards the heathens'll be thievin' the lot." He squinted toward the
window, but made no effort to move. His exhaustion and despair were
total.
"The goods are still where they unloaded them." Hawksworth revolved
toward the room. "They say nothing happens till the Shahbandar
arrives."
"What'd they say about him?" Elkington slowly drew himself to his feet.
"They said he arrives at mid morning, verifies his seal on the customs
house door, and then orders it opened. They also said that all traders
must be searched personally by his officers. He imposes duty on
everything, right down to the shillings in your pocket."
"Damn'd if I'll pay duty. Not for samples."
"That's what I said. And they ignored me. It seems to be law."
Hawksworth noticed that the gold was dissolving from the dawn sky,
surrendering to a brilliant azure. He turned, scooped a portion of
curds onto a piece of fried bread, and silently chewed as he puzzled
over the morning. And the night before.
Who had saved them? And why? Did someone in India hate the Portuguese
so much they would defend the English before even knowing who they
were? No one in India could know about King James's letter, about the
East India Company's plans. No one. Even George Elkington did not know
everything. Yet someone in India already wanted the English alive. He
had wrestled with the question for the rest of the trip upriver, and he
could think of no answers. They had been saved for a reason, a reason
he did not know, and that worried him even more than the Portuguese.
Without a pilot they had had to probe upriver slowly, sounding for
sandbars with an oar. Finally, when they were near exhaustion, the
river suddenly curved and widened. Then, in the first dim light of
morning, they caught the unmistakable outlines of a harbor. It had to
be Surat. The river lay north-south now, with the main city sprawled
along its eastern shore. The tide began to fall back, depleted, and he
realized they had timed its flow perfectly.
As they waited for dawn, the port slowly revealed itself in the eastern
glow. Long stone steps emerged directly from the Tapti River and
broadened into a wide, airy square flanked on three sides by massive
stone buildings. The structure on the downriver side was obviously a
fortress, built square with a large turret at each corner, and along
the top of walls Hawksworth could see the muzzles of cannon--they looked
to be eight-inchers--trained directly on the water. And in the waning
dark he spotted tiny points of light, spaced regularly along the top of
the fortress walls. That could only mean one thing.
"Mackintosh, ship the oars and drop anchor. We can't dock until
daylight."
"Aye, Cap'n, but why not take her in now? We can see to make a
landin'."
"And they can see us well enough to position their cannon. Look
carefully along there." Hawksworth directed his gaze toward the top of
the fortress. "They've lighted linstocks for the guns."
"Mother of God! Do they think we're goin' to storm their bleedin'
harbor with a pinnace?"
"Probably a standard precaution. But if we hold here, at least we'll
keep at the edge of their range. And we'd better put all weapons out of
sight. I want them to see a pinnace of friendly traders at sunup."
The dawn opened quickly, and as they watched, the square blossomed to
life. Large two-wheeled carts appeared through the half-dark, drawn by
muscular black oxen, some of whose horns had been tipped in silver. One
by one the oxen lumbered into the square, urged forward by the shouts
and beatings of turbaned drivers who wore folded white skirts instead
of breeches. Small fires were kindled by some of the men, and the
unmistakable scent of glowing dung chips savored the dark clouds of
smoke that drifted out across the river's surface.
Then Hawksworth first noticed the bathers that had appeared along the
shore on either side of the stone steps: brown men stripped to
loincloths and women in brilliantly colored head-to-toe wraps were
easing themselves ceremoniously into the chilled, mud-colored water,
some bowing repeatedly in the direction of the rising sun. Only the
waters fronting the stairway remained unobstructed.
When the dawn sky had lightened to a muted red, Hawksworth decided to
start their move. He surveyed the men crowded in the pinnace one last
time, and read in some faces expectation and in others fear. But in all
there was bone-deep fatigue. Only Elkington seemed fully absorbed in
the vision that lay before them.
Even from their distance the Chief Merchant was already assessing the
goods being unloaded from the carts: rolls of brown cloth, bundles of
indigo, and bales of combed cotton fiber. He would point, then turn and
gesture excitedly as he lectured Spencer.
The young clerk was now a bedraggled remnant of fashion in the powder-
smudged remains of his new doublet. The plumed hat he had worn as they
cast off had been lost in the attack downriver, and now he crouched in
the bottom of the pinnace, humiliated and morose, his eyes vacant.
"Mackintosh, weigh anchor. We'll row to the steps. Slowly."
The men bobbed alert as they hoisted the chain into the prow of the
pinnace. Oars were slipped noisily into their rowlocks and Mackintosh
signaled to get underway.
As they approached the stairway, alarmed cries suddenly arose from the
sentinels stationed on stone platforms flanking either side of the
steps. In moments a crowd collected along the river, with turbaned men
shouting in a language Hawksworth could not place and gesturing the
pinnace away from the dock. What could they want, he asked himself? Who
are they? They're not armed. They don't look hostile. Just upset.
"Permission to land." Hawksworth shouted to them in Turkish, his voice
slicing through the din and throwing a sudden silence over the crowd.
"The customs house does not open until two hours before midday," a
tall, bearded man shouted back. Then he squinted toward the pinnace.
"Who are you? Portuguese?"
"No, we're English." So that's it, Hawksworth thought. They assumed we
were Portugals with a boatload of booty. Here for a bit of private
trade.
The man examined the pinnace in confusion. Then he shouted again over
the waters.
"You are not Portuguese?"
"I told you we're English."
"Only Portuguese _topiwallahs_ are allowed to trade." The man was now
scrutinizing the pinnace in open perplexity.
"We've no goods for trade. Only samples." Hawksworth tried to think of
a way to confound the bureaucratic mind. "We only want food and drink."
"You cannot land at this hour."
"In name of Allah, the Merciful." Hawksworth stretched for his final
ploy, invocation of that hospitality underlying all Islamic life.
Demands can be ignored. A traveler's need, never. "Food and drink for
my men."
Miraculously, it seemed to work. The bearded man stopped short and
examined them again closely. Then he turned and dictated rapidly to the
group of waiting porters. In moments the men had plunged into the
chilled morning water, calling for the mooring line of the pinnace. As
they towed the pinnace into the shallows near the steps, other porters
swarmed about the boat and gestured to indicate the English should
climb over the gunwales and be carried ashore.
They caught hold of George Elkington first. He clung futilely to the
gunwales as he was dragged cursing from the bobbing pinnace and hoisted
on the backs of two small Indian men. Arms flailing, he toppled himself
from their grasp and splashed backward into the muddy Tapti. After he
floated to the surface, sputtering, he was dragged bodily from the
water and up the steps. Then the others were carried ashore, and only
Mackintosh tried to protest.
The last to leave the pinnace, Hawksworth hoisted himself off the prow
and onto the back of a wiry Indian whose thin limbs belied their
strength. The man's turban smelled faintly of sweat, but his well-worn
shirt was spotless. His dark eyes assessed Hawksworth with a practiced
sidelong glance, evaluating his attire, his importance, and the
approximate cash value of his sword in a single sweep.
Only after the porters had deposited them on the stone steps did
Hawksworth finally realize that India's best port had no wharf, that
human backs served as the loading platform for all men and goods. As he
looked around, he also noticed they had been surrounded by a crowd of
men, not identified by turbans as were the porters but uniformed more
expensively and wielding long, heavy canes. Wordlessly, automatically,
the men aligned themselves in two rows to create a protected pathway
leading up the steps and into the square. Hawksworth watched as they
beat back the gathering crowd of onlookers with their canes, and he
suddenly understood this was how the port prevented traders from
passing valuables to an accomplice in the crowd and circumventing
customs.
Then the tall bearded man approached Hawksworth, smiled professionally,
and bowed in the manner of Karim, hands together at the brow. "You are
welcome in the name of the Shahbandar, as a guest only, not as a
trader."
Without further greeting he directed them across the open square toward
a small stone building. "You will wait in the porters' lodge until the
customs house opens." As he ordered the heavy wooden door opened, he
curtly added, "The Shahbandar will rule whether your presence here is
permitted."
He had watched them enter, and then he was gone. Shortly after, the
food had appeared.
Hawksworth examined the room once more, its close air still damp with
the chill of dawn. The walls were squared, and the ceiling high and
arched. In a back corner a niche had been created, and in it rested a
small round stone pillar, presumably a religious object but one
Hawksworth did not recognize. Who would venerate a column of stone, he
mused, particularly one which seems almost like a man's organ? It can't
be the Muslims. They worship their own organs like no other race, but
they generally honor their law against icons. So it must be for the
gentiles, the Hindus. Which means that the porters are Hindus and their
overseers Moors. That's the privilege of conquerors. Just like every
other land the Moors have seized by the sword.
He glanced again at the tray and noted that the food had been
completely devoured, consumed by ravenous seamen who would have scorned
to touch milk curds six months before. After a moment's consideration,
Hawksworth turned and seated himself on the edge of the carpet. There's
nothing to be done. We may as well rest while we have the chance.
George Elkington had rolled himself in a corner of the
carpet and now he dozed fitfully. Humphrey Spencer fought sleep as he
worked vainly to brush away the powder smudges from his doublet.
Mackintosh had finished whetting his seaman's knife and now sat
absorbed in searching his hair for lice. Bosun's mate John Garway
lounged against a side wall, idly scratching his codpiece and dreaming
of the women he would soon have, his toothless smile fixed in sleepy
anticipation. The master's mate, Thomas Davies, dozed in a heap by the
door, his narrow face depleted and aged with scurvy. In a back corner
dice and a pile of coins had miraculously appeared, and the other
seamen sprawled about them on the floor, bloodshot eyes focused on the
chance numbers that would spell the longest splurge in port. Hawksworth
stretched his wounded leg once more, leaned stiffly against the front
wall, and forced his mind to drift again into needed rest.
Hawksworth was suddenly alert, his senses troubled. The sun had reached
midmorning now, and it washed the mud floor in brilliant yellow light.
He sensed that a heavy shadow had passed through its beam. He had not
specifically seen it, but somehow, intuitively, he knew. Without a word
he edged to the side of the heavy wooden door, his hand close to his
sword handle. All the others except Mackintosh were by now asleep. Only
the quartermaster had noticed it. He quickly moved to the side of the
door opposite Hawksworth and casually drew his heavy, bone-handled
knife.
Without warning the door swung outward.
Facing them was the same bearded man who had invited them ashore. The
square behind him was bright now with the glare of late morning, and in
the light Hawksworth realized he was wearing an immaculate white
turban, a long blue skirt over tightly fitting white breeches, and
ornate leather shoes, turned up at the toe in a curved point. This
time, however, he no longer bore welcome.
"Where have you anchored your ships?" The Turki was accented and
abrupt.
News travels fast, Hawksworth thought, as he tried to shove the haze
from his mind. "Where is the Shahbandar?"
"Your merchantmen were not in the bay this morning. Where are they
now?" The man seemed to ignore Hawksworth's question.
"I demand to see the Shahbandar. And I'll answer no questions till I
do."
"You do not demand of the Shahbandar." The man's black beard worked
nervously, even when he paused. "You and all your men are to be brought
to the customs house, together with your goods."
"Where is he now?"
"He is here."
"Where?"
The Indian turned and gestured quickly across the maidan, the square,
toward the large windowless stone building that sat on the water's edge
opposite the fortress. Hawksworth looked at the cluster of armed guards
and realized this must be the mint. This was the building, he now
remembered Karim telling him, where foreign money was "exchanged." All
foreign coins, even Spanish rials of eight, were required to be melted
down and reminted into rupees before they could be used for purchase.
Supposedly a protection against counterfeit or base coin, this
requirement produced months of delay. The Shahbandar gave only one
alternative to traders in a hurry: borrow ready-made rupees at
exorbitant interest.
"After he has authorized the beginning of today's work at the mint, he
will verify the seal on the door of the customs house"--he pointed to
the squat building adjoining their lodge--"and open it for today. All
goods must be taxed and receive his _chapp _or seal before they can
enter or leave India."
The men had begun to stir, and Hawksworth turned to translate. The
English assembled warily, and the air came alive with an almost
palpable apprehension as Hawksworth led them into the bustling square.
"We must wait." The tall Indian suddenly paused near the center of the
maidan, just as a group of guards emerged from the mint. Each wore a
heavy sword, and they were escorting a large closed palanquin carried
on the shoulders of four bearers dressed only in white skirts folded
about their waist. The guards cleared a path through the crowd of
merchants, and made their way slowly to the door of the customs house.
The crowd surged in behind them, blocking the view, but moments later
the tall doors of the customs house were seen to swing open, and the
crowd funneled in, behind the palanquin and the guards. Then the Indian
motioned for them to follow.
The interior of the customs house smelled of sweat, mingled with spice
and the dusty fragrance of indigo. As oil lamps were lighted and
attached to the side walls, the milling crowd grew visible. Through the
semi-dark porters were already bearing the English goods in from the
_maidan_ and piling them in one of the allotted stalls.
The tall guide turned to Hawksworth. "You and all your men must now be
searched, here in the counting room."
"I'll not allow it." Hawksworth motioned the English back. "I told you
I demand to see the Shahbandar."
"He'll receive you when he will. He has not granted an audience."
"Then we'll not be searched. Tell him that. Now."
The Indian paused for a moment, then reluctantly turned and made his
way toward a door at the rear of the large room. Elkington pressed
forward, his face strained.
"Tell the bleedin' heathen we're English. We'll not be treated like
this rabble." He motioned around the room, a bedlam of Arab, Persian,
and Indian traders who eyed the English warily as they shouted for the
attention of customs inspectors and competed to bribe porters.
"Just hold quiet. I think they know exactly who we are. And they know
about the ships."
As they waited, Hawksworth wondered what he should tell the Shahbandar,
and he again puzzled over the words of Karim. Think. What can you tell
him that he hasn't already heard? I'll wager he knows full well we were
attacked by Portugals in the bay. That we burned and sank two galleons.
Will he now hold us responsible for warfare in Indian waters? I'll even
wager he knows we were attacked on the river. And who saved us.
The large Indian was returning, striding through the center aisle
accompanied by four of the Shahbandar's guards. He motioned for
Hawksworth to follow, alone.
The door of the rear chamber was sheathed in bronze, with heavy ornate
hinges and an immense hasp. It seemed to swing open of itself as they
approached.
And they were in the chamber of the Shahbandar.
As he entered, Hawksworth was momentarily blinded by the blaze of oil
lamps that lined the walls of the room. Unlike the simple plaster walls
and pillars of the outer receiving area, this inner chamber was
forbiddingly ornate, with gilded ceilings almost thirty feet high. The
room was already bustling with clerks straightening piles of account
books and readying themselves for the day's affairs.
The room fell silent and a way suddenly cleared through the center, as
the Hindu clerks fell back along the walls. They all wore tight, neat
headdresses and formal cotton top shirts, and Hawksworth felt a sudden
consciousness of his own clothes--muddy boots and powder-smeared jerkin
and breeches. For the first time since they arrived he found himself in
a room with no other Europeans. The isolation felt sudden and complete.
Then he saw the Shahbandar.
On a raised dais at the rear of the room, beneath a canopy of gold-
embroidered cloth, sat the chief port official of India. He rested
stiffly on a four-legged couch strewn with cushions, and he wore a
turban of blue silk, narrow- patterned trousers, and an embroidered tan
robe that crossed to the right over his plump belly and was secured
with a row of what appeared to be rubies. He seemed oblivious to
Hawksworth as he cursed and drew on the end of a tube being held to his
mouth by an attending clerk. The clerk's other hand worked a burning
taper over the open top of a long-necked clay pot. The tube being held
to the Shahbandar's mouth was attached to a spout on the side. Suddenly
Hawksworth heard a gurgle from the pot and saw the Shahbandar inhale a
mouthful of dark smoke.
"Tobacco is the only thing the _topiwallahs _ever brought to India that
she did not already have. Even then we still had to
devise the hookah to smoke it properly." He inhaled appreciatively. "It
is forbidden during this month of Ramadan, but no man was made to fast
during daylight and also forgo tobacco. The morning sun still rose in
the east, and thus it is written the gate of repentance remains open to
God's servants."
The Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with curiosity. His face recalled
hard desert nomad blood, but now it was softened with ease, plump and
moustachioed. He wore gold earrings, and he was barefoot.
"Favor me by coming closer. I must see this _feringhi _captain who
brings such turmoil to our waters." He turned and cursed the servant as
the hookah continued to gurgle inconclusively. Then a roll of smoke
burst through the tube and the Shahbandar's eyes mellowed as he drew it
deeply into his lungs. He held the smoke for a moment while he gazed
quizzically at Hawksworth, squinting as though the air between them
were opaque.
"They tell me you are English. May I have the pleasure to know your
name?"
"I'm Brian Hawksworth, captain of the frigate _Discovery_. May I also
have the privilege of an introduction."
"I will stand before Allah as Mirza Nuruddin." He again drew deeply on
the hookah. "But here I am the Shahbandar." He exhaled a cloud and
examined Hawksworth. "Your ship and another were in our bay yesterday.
I am told they weighed anchor at nightfall. Do English vessels
customarily sail without their captain?"
"When they have reason to do so." Hawksworth fixed him squarely,
wondering if he was really almost blind or if he merely wanted to
appear so.
"And what, Captain . . . Hawksworth, brings you and your contentious
warships to our port? It is not often our friends the Portuguese permit
their fellow Christians to visit us."
"Our ships are traders of England's East India Company."
"Do not squander my time telling me what I already know." The
Shahbandar suddenly seemed to erupt. "They have never before come to
India. Why are you here now?"
Hawksworth sensed suddenly that the Shahbandar had been merely toying
with him. That he knew full well why they had come and had already
decided what to do. He recalled the words of Karim, declaring the
Shahbandar had his own private system of spies.
"We are here for the same reason we have visited the islands. To trade
the goods of Europe."
"But we already do trade with Europeans. The Portuguese. Who also
protect our seas."
"Have you found profit in it?"
"Enough. But it is not your place to question me, Captain Hawksworth."
"Then you may wish to profit through English trade as well."
"And your merchants, I assume, also expect to profit here."
"That's the normal basis of trade." Hawksworth shifted, easing his leg.
The Shahbandar glanced downward, but without removing his lips from the
tube of the hookah. "I notice you have a wound, Captain Hawksworth.
Yours would seem a perilous profession."
"It's sometimes even more perilous for our enemies."
"I presume you mean the Portuguese." The Shahbandar cursed the servant
anew and called for a new taper to fire the hookah. "But their perils
are over. Yours have only begun. Surely you do not expect they will
allow you to trade here."
"Trade here is a matter between England and India. It does not involve
the Portugals."
The Shahbandar smiled. "But we have a trade agreement with the
Portuguese, a _firman_ signed by His Majesty, the Moghul of India,
allowing them free access to our ports. We have no such agreement with
England."
"Then we were mistaken. We believed the port of Surat belonged to
India, not to the Portugals." Hawksworth felt his palms moisten at the
growing game of nerves. "India, you would say, has no ports of her own.
No authority to trade with whom she will."
"You come to our door with warfare and insolence, Captain Hawksworth.
Perhaps I would have been surprised if you had done otherwise." The
Shahbandar paused to draw thoughtfully on the smoking mouthpiece. "Why
should I expect this? Although you would not ask, let me assume you
have. The reputation of English sea dogs is not unknown in the Indies."
"And I can easily guess who brought you these libelous reports of
England. Perhaps you should examine their motives."
"We have received guidance in our judgment from those we have trusted
for many years." The Shahbandar waved aside the hookah and fixed
Hawksworth with a hard gaze.
Hawksworth returned the unblinking stare for a moment while an idea
formed in his mind. "I believe it once was written, 'There are those
who purchase error at the price of guidance, so their commerce does not
prosper. Neither are they guided.'"
A sudden hush enveloped the room as the Shahbandar examined Hawksworth
with uncharacteristic surprise. For a moment his eyes seemed lost in
concentration, then they quickly regained their focus. "The Holy Quran--
Surah II, if I have not lost the lessons of my youth." He stopped and
smiled in disbelief. "It's impossible a _topiwallah_ should know the
words of the Merciful Prophet, on whom be peace. You are a man of
curious parts, English captain." Again he paused. "And you dissemble
with all the guile of a _mullah_."
"I merely speak the truth."
"Then speak the truth to me now, Captain Hawksworth. Is it not true the
English are a notorious nation of pirates? That your merchants live off
the commerce of others, pillaging where they see fit. Should I not
inquire, therefore, whether you intrude into our waters for the same
purpose?"
"England has warred in years past on her rightful enemies. But our wars
are over. The East India Company was founded for peaceful trade. And
the Company is here for no purpose but to trade peacefully with
merchants in Surat." Hawksworth dutifully pressed forward. "Our two
merchantmen bring a rich store of English goods--woolens, ironwork, lead
. . ."
"While you war with the Portuguese, in sight of our very shores. Will
you next make war on our own merchants? I'm told it is your historic
livelihood."
As he studied Hawksworth, the Shahbandar found himself reflecting on
the previous evening. The sun had set and the Ramadan meal was already
underway when Father Manoel Pinheiro, the second-ranked Portuguese
Jesuit in India, had appeared at his gates demanding an audience.
For two tiresome hours he had endured the Jesuit's pained excuses for
Portugal's latest humiliation at sea. And his boasts that the English
would never survive a trip upriver. And for the first time Mirza
Nuruddin could remember, he had smelled fear.
Mirza Nuruddin had sensed no fear in the Portuguese eight years before,
when an English captain named Lancaster had attacked and pillaged a
Portuguese galleon in the seas off Java. Then the Viceroy of Goa brayed
he would know retribution, although nothing was ever done. And a mere
five years ago the Viceroy himself led a fleet of twelve warships to
Malacca boasting to burn the eleven Dutch merchantmen lading there. And
the Dutch sank almost his entire fleet. Now the pirates of Malabar
daily harassed Indian shipping the length of the western coast and the
Portuguese patrols seemed powerless to control them. In one short
decade, he told himself, the Portuguese have shown themselves unable to
stop the growing Dutch spice trade in the islands, unable to rid
India's coasts of pirates, and now . . . now unable to keep other
Europeans from India's own doorstep.
He studied Hawksworth again and asked himself why the English had come.
And why the two small English vessels had challenged four armed
galleons, instead of turning and making for open sea? To trade a cargo
of wool? No cargo was worth the risk they had taken. There had to be
another reason. And that reason, or whatever lay behind it, terrified
the Portuguese. For the first time ever.
"We defend ourselves when attacked. That's all." Hawksworth found
himself wanting to end the questions, to escape the smoky room and the
Shahbandar's intense gaze. "That has no bearing on our request to trade
in this port."
"I will take your request under advisement. In the meantime you and
your men will be searched and your goods taxed, in keeping with our
law."
"You may search the men if you wish. But I am here as representative of
the king of England. And as his representative I will not allow my
personal chest to be searched, no more than His Majesty, King James of
England, would submit to such an indignity." Hawksworth decided to
reach for all the authority his ragged appearance would allow.
"All _feringhi_, except ambassadors, must be searched. Do you claim
that immunity?"
"I am an ambassador, and I will be traveling to Agra to represent my
king."
"Permission for _feringhi _to travel in India must come from the Moghul
himself." The Shahbandar's face remained impassive but his mind raced.
The stakes of the English game were not wool, he suddenly realized, but
India. The English king was challenging Portugal for the trade of
India. Their audacity as astonishing. "A request can be sent to Agra by
the governor of this province."
"Then I must see him to ask that a message be sent to Agra. For now, I
demand that my personal effects be released from the customs house. And
that no duty be levied on our goods, which are samples and not for
sale."
"If your goods are not taxed, they will remain in the customs house.
That is the law. Because you claim to represent your king, I will forgo
my obligation to search your person. All of your men, however, will be
searched down to their boots, and any goods or coin they bring through
this port will be taxed according to the prevailing rate. Two and one-
half percent of value."
"Our Chief Merchant wishes to display his samples to your traders."
"I have told you I will consider your request for trade.
There are many considerations." He signaled for the hookah to be
lighted again. The interview seemed to be ended.
Hawksworth bowed with what formality he could muster and turned toward
the counting-room door.
"Captain Hawksworth. You will not be returning to your men. I have made
other arrangements for your lodging."
Hawksworth revolved to see four porters waiting by an open door at the
Shahbandar's left.
I must be tired. I hadn't noticed the door until now.
Then he realized it had been concealed in the decorations on the wall.
When he did not move, the porters surrounded him.
No, they're not porters. They're the guards who held back the crowds
from the steps. And they're armed now.
"I think you will find your lodgings suitable." The Shahbandar watched
Hawksworth's body tense. "My men will escort you. Your chest will
remain here under my care."
The Shahbandar returned again to his gurgling hookah.
"My chest will not be subject to search. If it is to be searched, I
will return now to my ship." Hawksworth still did not move. "Your
officials will respect my king, and his honor."
"It is in my care." The Shahbandar waved Hawksworth toward the door. He
did not look up from his pipe.
As Hawksworth passed into the midday sunshine, he saw the Shahbandar's
own palanquin waiting by the door. Directly ahead spread the city's
teeming horse and cattle bazaar, while on his right, under a dense
banyan tree, a dark-eyed beggar sat on a pallet, clothed only in a
white loincloth and wearing ashes in his braided hair and curious white
and red marks on his forehead. His eyes were burning and intense, and
he inspected the new _feringhi _as though he'd just seen the person of
the devil.
Why should I travel hidden from view, Hawksworth puzzled?
But there was no time to ponder an answer. The cloth covering was
lifted and he found himself urged into the cramped conveyance, made
even more comfortless and hot by its heavy carpet lining and bolster
seat. In moments the street had disappeared into jolting darkness.
CHAPTER SIX
He felt the palanquin drop roughly onto a hard surface, and
when the curtains were pulled aside he looked down to see the stone
mosaic of a garden courtyard. They had traveled uphill at least part of
the time, with what seemed many unnecessary turns and windings, and now
they were hidden from the streets by the high walls of a garden
enclosure. Tall slender palms lined the inside of the garden's white
plaster wall, and denser trees shaded a central two-story building,
decorated around its entry with raised Arabic lettering in ornate
plasterwork. The guards motioned him through the large wooden portico
of the house, which he began to suspect might be the residence of a
wealthy merchant. After a long hallway, they entered a spacious room
with clean white walls and a thick center carpet over a floor of
patterned marble inlay. Large pillows lay strewn about the carpet, and
the air hung heavy with the stale scent of spice.
It's the house of a rich merchant or official, all right. What else can
it be? The decorated panels on the doors and the large brass knobs all
indicate wealth. But what's the room for? For guests? No. It's too
empty. There's almost no furniture. No bed. No . . .
Then suddenly he understood. A banquet room.
He realized he had never seen a more sumptuous private dining hall,
even among the aristocracy in London. The guards closed the heavy
wooden doors, but there was no sound of their footsteps retreating.
Who are they protecting me from?
A servant, with skin the color of ebony and a white turban that seemed
to enclose a large part of his braided and folded-up beard, pushed open
an interior door to deposit a silver tray. More fried bread and a bowl
of curds.
"Where am I? Whose house . . . ?"
The man bowed, made hand signs pleading incomprehension, and retreated
without a word.
As Hawksworth started to reach for a piece of the bread, the outer door
opened, and one of the guards stepped briskly to the tray and stopped
his hand. He said nothing, merely signaled to wait. Moments later
another guard also entered, and with him was a woman. She was unveiled,
with dark skin and heavy gold bangles about her ankles. She stared at
Hawksworth with frightened eyes. Brisk words passed in an alien
language, and then the woman pointed to Hawksworth and raised her voice
as she replied to the guard. He said nothing, but simply lifted a long,
sheathed knife from his waist and pointed it toward the tray, his
gesture signifying all. After a moment's pause, the woman edged forward
and gingerly sampled the curds with her fingers, first sniffing and
then reluctantly tasting. More words passed, after which the guards
bowed to Hawksworth almost imperceptibly and escorted the woman from
the room, closing the door.
Hawksworth watched in dismay and then turned again to examine the
dishes.
If they're that worried, food can wait. Who was she? Probably a slave.
Of the Shahbandar?
He removed his boots, tossed them in the corner, and eased himself onto
the bolsters piled at one end of the central carpet. The wound in his
leg had become a dull ache.
Jesus help me, I'm tired. What does the Shahbandar really want? Why was
Karim so fearful of him? And what's the role of the governor in all
this? Will all these requests and permissions and permits end up
delaying us so long the Portugals will find our anchorage? And what
will the governor want out of me?
He tried to focus his mind on the governor, on a figure he sculpted in
his imagination. A fat, repugnant, pompous bureaucrat. But the figure
slowly began to transform, and in time it became the Turk who had
imprisoned him in Tunis, with a braided fez and a jeweled dagger at his
waist. The fat Turk was not listening, he was issuing a decree. You
will stay. Only then will I have what I want. What I must have. Next a
veiled woman entered the room, and her eyes were like Maggie's. She
seized his hand and guided him toward the women's apartments, past the
frowning guards, who raised large scimitars in interdiction until she
waved them aside. Then she led him to the center of a brilliantly
lighted room, until they stood before a large stone pillar, a pillar
like the one in the porters' lodge except it was immense, taller than
his head. You belong to me now, her eyes seemed to say, and she began
to bind him to the pillar with silken cords. He struggled to free
himself, but the grasp on his wrists only became stronger. In panic he
struck out and yelled through the haze of incense.
"Let . . . !"
"I'm only trying to wake you, Captain." A voice cut through the
nightmare. "His Eminence, the Shahbandar, has requested that I attend
your wound."
Hawksworth startled awake and was reaching for his sword before he saw
the swarthy little man, incongruous in a white swath of a skirt and a
Portuguese doublet, nervously shaking his arm. The man pulled back in
momentary surprise, then dropped his cloth medicine bag on the floor
and began to carefully fold a large red umbrella. Hawksworth noted he
wore no shoes on his dusty feet.
"Allow me to introduce myself." He bowed ceremoniously. "My name is
Mukarjee. It is my honor to attend the celebrated new _feringhi_." His
Turki was halting and strongly accented.
He knelt and deftly cut away the wrapping on Hawksworth's leg. "And who
applied this?" With transparent disdain he began uncoiling the muddy
bandage. "The Christian _topiwallahs _constantly astound me. Even
though my daughter is married to one." One eyebrow twitched nervously
as he worked.
Hawksworth stared at him through a groggy haze, marveling at the
dexterity of his chestnut-brown hands. Then he glanced nervously at the
vials of colored liquid and jars of paste the man was methodically
extracting from his cloth bag.
"It was our ship's physician. He swathed this after attending a dozen
men with like wounds or worse."
"No explanations are necessary. _Feringhi_ methods are always
unmistakable. In Goa, where I lived for many years after leaving
Bengal, I once served in a hospital built by Christian priests."
"You worked in a Jesuit hospital?"
"I did indeed." He began to scrape away the oily powder residue from
the wound. Hawksworth's leg jerked involuntarily from the flash of
pain. "Please do not move. Yes, I served there until I could abide it
no more. It was a very exclusive hospital. Only _feringhi _were allowed
to go there to be bled."
He began to wash the wound, superficial but already festering, with a
solution from one of the vials. "Yes, we Indians were denied that
almost certain entry into Christian paradise represented by its
portals. But it was usually the first stop for arriving Portuguese,
after the brothels."
"But why do so many Portuguese sicken after they reach Goa?" Hawksworth
watched Mukarjee begin to knead a paste that smelled strongly of
sandalwood spice.
"It's well that you ask, Captain Hawksworth." Mukarjee tested the
consistency of the sandalwood paste with his finger and then placed it
aside, apparently to thicken. "You appear to be a strong man, but after
many months at sea you may not be as virile as you assume."
He absently extracted a large, dark green leaf from the pocket of his
doublet and dabbed it in a paste he kept in a crumpled paper. Then he
rolled it around the cracked pieces of a small brown nut, popped it
into his mouth, and began to chew. Suddenly remembering himself, he
stopped and produced another leaf from his pocket.
"Would you care to try betel, what they call pan here in Surat? It's
very healthy for the teeth. And the digestion."
"What is it?"
"A delicious leaf. I find I cannot live without it, so perhaps it's a
true addiction. It's slightly bitter by itself, but if you roll it
around an areca nut and dip it in a bit of lime--which we make from
mollusk shells--it is perfectly exquisite."
Hawksworth shook his head in wary dissent, whereupon Mukarjee
continued, settling himself on his haunches and sucking contentedly on
the rolled leaf as he spoke. "You ask why I question your well-being,
Captain? Because a large number of the _feringhis_ who come to Goa, and
India, are doomed to die."
"You already said that. From what? Poison in their food?"
Mukarjee examined him quizzically for a moment as he concentrated on
the rolled leaf, savoring the taste, and Hawksworth noticed a red
trickle emerge from the corner of his mouth and slide slowly off his
chin. He turned and discharged a mouthful of juice into a small brass
container, clearing his mouth to speak.
"The most common illness for Europeans here is called the bloody flux."
Mukarjee tested the paste again with his finger, and then began to stir
it vigorously with a wooden spatula. "For four or five days the body
burns with intense heat, and then either it is gone or you are dead."
"Are there no medicines?" Hawksworth watched as he began to spread the
paste over the wound.
"Of course there are medicines." Mukarjee chuckled resignedly. "But the
Portuguese scorn to use them."
"Probably wisely," Hawksworth reflected. "It's said the flux is caused
by an excess of humors in the blood. Bleeding is the only real remedy."
"I see." Mukarjee began to apply the paste and then to bind
Hawksworth's leg with a swath of white cloth. "Yes, my friend, that is
what the Portuguese do--you must hold still--and I have personally
observed how effective it is in terminating illness."
"The damned Jesuits are the best physicians in Europe."
"So I have often been told. Most frequently at funerals." Mukarjee
quickly tied a knot in the binding and spat another mouthful of red
juice. "Your wound is really nothing more than a scratch. But you would
have been dead in a fortnight. By this, if not by exertion."
"What do you mean?" Hawksworth rose and tested his leg, amazed that the
pain seemed to have vanished.
"The greatest scourge of all for newly arrived Europeans
here seems to be our women. It is inevitable, and my greatest source of
amusement." He spat the exhausted betel leaf toward the corner of the
room and paused dramatically while he prepared another.
"Explain what you mean about the women."
"Let me give you an example from Goa." Mukarjee squatted again. "The
Portuguese soldiers arriving from Lisbon each year tumble from their
ships more dead than alive, weak from months at sea and the inevitable
scurvy. They are in need of proper food, but they pay no attention to
this, for they are even more starved for the company of women. . . . By
the way, how is your wound?" Mukarjee made no attempt to suppress a
smile at Hawksworth's astonished testing of his leg.
"The pain seems to be gone." He tried squatted in Indian style, like
Mukarjee, and found that this posture, too, brought no discomfort.
"Well, these scurvy-weakened soldiers immediately avail themselves of
Goa's many well-staffed brothels--which, I note, Christians seem to
frequent with greater devotion than their fine churches. What uneven
test of skill and vigor transpires I would not speculate, but many of
these _feringhis _soon find the only beds suited for them are in the
Jesuit's Kings Hospital, where few ever leave. I watched some five
hundred Portuguese a year tread this path of folly." Mukarjee's lips
were now the hue of the rose.
"And what happens to those who do live?"
"They eventually wed one of our women, or one of their own, and embrace
the life of sensuality that marks the Portuguese in Goa. With twenty,
sometimes even thirty slaves to supply their wants and pleasure. And
after a time they develop stones in the kidney, or gout, or some other
affliction of excess."
"What do their wives die of? The same thing?"
"Some, yes, but I have also seen many charged with adultery by their
fat Portuguese husbands--a suspicion rarely without grounds, for they
really have nothing more to do on hot afternoons than chew betel and
intrigue with the lusty young soldiers--and executed. The women are said
to deem it an honorable martyrdom, vowing they die for love."
Mukarjee rose and began meticulously replacing the vials in his cloth
bag. "I may be allowed to visit you again if you wish, but I think
there's no need. Only forgo the company of our women for a time, my
friend. Practice prudence before pleasure."
A shaft of light from the hallway cut across the room, as the door
opened without warning. A guard stood in the passageway, wearing a
uniform Hawksworth had not seen before.
"I must be leaving now." Mukarjee's voice rose to public volume as he
nervously scooped up his umbrella and his bag, without pausing to
secure the knot at its top. Then he bent toward Hawksworth with a quick
whisper. "Captain, the Shahbandar has sent his Rajputs. You must take
care."
He deftly slipped past the guard in the doorway and was gone.
Hawksworth examined the Rajputs warily. They wore leather helmets
secured with a colored headband, knee- length tunics over heavy tight-
fitting trousers, and a broad cloth belt. A large round leather shield
hung at each man's side, suspended from a shoulder strap, and each
guard wore an ornate quiver at his waist from which protruded a heavy
horn bow and bamboo arrows. All were intent and unsmiling. Their
leader, his face framed in a thicket of coarse black hair, stepped
through the doorway and addressed Hawksworth in halting Turki.
"The Shahbandar has requested your presence at the customs house. I am
to inform you he has completed all formalities for admission of your
personal chest and has approved it with his _chapp_."
The palanquin was nowhere to be seen when they entered the street, but
now Hawksworth was surrounded. As they began walking he noticed the
pain in his leg was gone. The street was lined by plaster walls and the
cool evening air bore the scent of flowers from their concealed
gardens. The houses behind the walls were partially shielded by tall
trees, but he could tell they were several stories high, with flat
roofs on which women clustered, watching.
These must all be homes of rich Muslim merchants. Palaces for the
princes of commerce. And the streets are filled with dark-skinned,
slow-walking poor. Probably servants, or slaves, in no hurry to end the
errand that freed them from their drudgery inside.
Then as they started downhill, toward the river, they began to pass
tile-roofed, plaster-walled homes he guessed were owned by Hindu
merchants, since they were without gardens or the high walls Muslims
used to hide their women. As they neared the river the air started to
grow sultry, and they began passing the clay-walled huts of shopkeepers
and clerks, roofed in palm leaves with latticework grills for windows.
Finally they reached the bazaar of Surat, its rows of palm trees
deserted now, with silence where earlier he had heard a tumult of
hawkers and strident women's voices. Next to the bazaar stood the
stables, and Hawksworth noticed flocks of small boys, naked save for a
loincloth, scavenging to find any dung cakes that had been overlooked
by the women who collected fuel. The air was dense and smelled of
earth, and its taste overwhelmed his lingering memory of the wind off
the sea.
The streets of Surat converged like the spokes of a wheel, with the
customs house and port as its hub. Just like every port town in the
world, Hawksworth smiled to himself: all roads lead to the sea.
Except here all roads lead to the customs house and the Shahbandar.
Then, as they approached the last turn in the road, just outside the
enclosure of the customs house, they were suddenly confronted by a band
of mounted horsemen, armed with long-barreled muskets. The horsemen
spanned the roadway and were probably twenty in all, well outnumbering
the Rajputs. The horsemen made no effort to move aside as Hawksworth
and his guards approached.
Hawksworth noticed the Rajputs stiffen slightly and their hands drop
loosely to the horn bows protruding from their quivers, but they did
not break their pace.
My God, they're not going to halt. There'll be bloodshed. And we're
sure to lose.
Without warning a hand threw Hawksworth sprawling against the thick
plaster side of a building, and a large, round
rhino-hide buckler suddenly was covering his body, shielding him
entirely from the horsemen.
Next came a melee of shouts, and he peered out to see the Rajputs
encircling him, crouched in a firing pose, each bow aimed on a horseman
and taut with its first arrow. The musket-bearing horsemen fumbled with
their still uncocked weapons. In lightning moves of only seconds, the
Rajputs had seized the advantage.
Not only are their bows more accurate than muskets, Hawksworth thought,
they're also handier. They can loose half a dozen arrows before a
musket can be reprimed. But what was the signal? I saw nothing, heard
nothing. Yet they acted as one. I've never before seen such speed, such
discipline.
Then more shouting. Hawksworth did not recognize the language, but he
guessed it might be Urdu, the mixture of imported Persian and native
Hindi Karim had said was used in the Moghul's army as a compromise
between the language of its Persian-speaking officers and the Hindi-
speaking infantry. The Rajputs did not move as the horseman in the lead
withdrew a rolled paper from his waist and contemptuously tossed it
onto the ground in front of them.
While the others covered him with their bows, the leader of the Rajputs
advanced and retrieved the roll from the dust. Hawksworth watched as he
unscrolled it and examined in silence. At the bottom Hawksworth could
make out the red mark of a _chapp_, like the one he had seen on bundles
in the customs house. The paper was passed among the Rajputs, each
studying it in turn, particularly the seal. Then there were more
shouts, and finally resolution. The dark-bearded leader of Hawksworth's
guard approached him and bowed. Then he spoke in Turki, his voice
betraying none of the emotion Hawksworth had witnessed moments before.
"They are guards of the governor, Mukarrab Khan. They have shown us
orders by the Shahbandar, bearing his seal, instructing that you be
transferred to their care. You will go with them."
Then he dropped his bow casually into his quiver and led the other men
off in the direction of the customs house, all still marching, as
though they knew no other pace.
"Captain Hawksworth, please be tolerant of our Hindu friends. They are
single-minded soldiers of fortune, and a trifle old-fashioned in their
manners." The leader of the guard smiled and pointed to a riderless
saddled horse being held by one of the riders. "We have a mount for
you. Will you kindly join us?"
Hawksworth looked at the horse, a spirited Arabian mare, and then at
the saddle, a heavy round tapestry embroidered in silver thread with
tassels front and back, held by a thick girth also of tapestry. The
stirrups were small triangles of iron held by a leather strap attached
to a ring at the top of the girth. A second tapestry band around the
mare's neck secured the saddle near the mane. The mane itself had been
woven with decorations of beads and small feathers. The horse's neck
was held in a permanent arch by a leather checkrein extending from the
base of the bridle through the chest strap, and secured to the lower
girth. The mare pranced in anticipation, while her coat sparkled in the
waning sun. She was a thing of pure beauty.
"Where are we going?"
"But of course. The governor, Mukarrab Khan, has staged a small
celebration this afternoon and would be honored if you could join him.
Today is the final day of Ramadan, our month-long Muslim fast. He's at
the _chaugan_ field. But come, patience is not his most enduring
quality."
Hawksworth did not move.
"Why did the Shahbandar change his order? We were going to the customs
house to fetch my chest."
"The governor is a persuasive man. It was his pleasure that you join
him this afternoon. But please mount. He is waiting." The man stroked
his moustache with a manicured hand as he nodded toward the waiting
mount. "His Excellency sent one of his finest horses. I think he has a
surprise for you."
Hawksworth swung himself into the saddle, and immediately his mare
tossed her head in anticipation. She was lanky and spirited, nothing
like the lumbering mount his father had once taught him to ride at the
army's camp outside London so many, many years ago.
Without another word the men wheeled their horses and started off in a
direction parallel to the river. Then the one who had spoken abruptly
halted the entire party.
"Please forgive me, but did I introduce myself? I am the secretary to
His Excellency, Mukarrab Khan. We were cast from the civilized comforts
of Agra onto this dung heap port of Surat together. Perhaps it was our
stars."
Hawksworth was only half-listening to the man. He turned and looked
back over his shoulder in time to see the Rajputs entering into the
compound of the customs house. The leader of the horsemen caught his
glance and smiled.
"Let me apologize again for our friends of the Rajput guard. You do
understand they have no official standing. They serve whomever they are
paid to serve. If that thief, the Shahbandar, discharged them tomorrow
and then another hired them to kill him, they would do so without a
word. Rajputs are professional mercenaries, who do battle as coldly as
the tiger hunts game." He turned his horse onto a wide avenue that
paralleled the river. The sunlight was now filtered through the haze of
evening smoke from cooking fires that was enveloping the city.
"Do Rajputs also serve the governor?"
The man laughed broadly and smoothed the braided mane of his horse as
he twisted sideways in the saddle and repeated Hawksworth's question
for the other riders. A peal of amusement cut the quiet of the evening
streets.
"My dear English captain, he might wish to hang them, but he would
never hire them. His Excellency has the pick of the Moghul infantry and
cavalry in this district, men of lineage and breeding. Why should he
need Hindus?"
Hawksworth monitored the riders carefully out of the corner of his eye
and thought he detected a trace of nervousness in their mirth. Yes, he
told himself, why use Hindus--except the Shahbandar's Hindu mercenaries
got the advantage of you in only seconds. While you and your pick of
the Moghul cavalry were fiddling with your uncocked muskets. Perhaps
there's a good reason the Shahbandar doesn't hire men of lineage and
breeding.
Hawksworth noticed they were paralleling a wall of the city, a high
brick barrier with iron pikes set along its capstone. Abruptly the wall
curved across the road they were traveling and they were facing a
massive wooden gate that spanned the width of the street. Suddenly
guards appeared, each in uniform and holding a pike. They hurriedly
swung wide the gate as the procession approached, then snapped crisply
to attention along the roadside.
"This is the Abidjan Gate." The secretary nodded in response to the
salute of the guards. "You can just see the field from here." He
pointed ahead, then urged his horse to a gallop. A cooling dampness was
invading the evening air, and now the sun had entirely disappeared into
the cloud of dense cooking smoke that boiled above the city, layering a
dark mantle over the landscape. Again Hawksworth felt his apprehension
rising. What's the purpose of bringing me to a field outside the city,
with dark approaching? He instinctively fingered the cool handle of his
sword, but its feel did nothing to ease his mind.
Then he heard cheers from the field ahead, and saw a burning ball fly
across the evening sky. Ahead was a large green, and on it horsemen
raced back and forth, shouting and cursing in several languages, their
horses jostling recklessly. Other mounted horsemen watched from the
side of the green and bellowed encouragement.
As they approached the edge of the field, Hawksworth saw one of the
players capture the burning ball, guiding it along the green with a
long stick whose end appeared to be curved. He spurred his mottled gray
mount toward two tall posts stationed at one end of the green. Another
player was hard in chase, and his horse, a dark stallion, was closing
rapidly toward the rolling ball. As the first player swept upward with
his stick, lofting the burning ball toward the posts, the second player
passed him and--in a maneuver that seemed dazzling to Hawksworth--circled
his own stick over his head and captured the ball in midair, deflecting
it toward the edge of the green where Hawksworth and his guards waited.
Cheers went up from some of the players and spectators, and the
horsemen all dashed for the edge of the green in chase of the ball,
which rolled in among Hawksworth's entourage and out of play. The
horseman on the dark stallion suddenly noticed Hawksworth and, with a
shout to the other players, whipped his steed toward the arriving
group.
As he approached, Hawksworth studied his face carefully. He was pudgy
but still athletic, with a short, well-trimmed moustache and a tightly
wound turban secured with a large red stone that looked like a ruby. He
carried himself erect, with a confidence only full vigor could impart,
yet his face was incongruously debauched, almost ravaged, and his eyes
deeply weary. There was no hint of either triumph or pleasure in those
eyes or in his languorous mouth, although he had just executed a
sensational block of an almost certain score. He reined his wheezing
mount only when directly in front of Hawksworth, sending up a cloud of
dust.
"Are you the English captain?" The voice was loud, with an impatient
tone indicating long years of authority.
"I command the frigates of the East India Company." Hawksworth tried to
keep his gaze steady. What sort of man can this be, he asked himself?
Is this the one who can demand the Shahbandar's signature and seal
whenever he wishes?
"Then I welcome you, Captain." The dark stallion reared suddenly for no
apparent reason, in a display of exuberance. The man expertly reined
him in, never removing his gaze from Hawksworth, and continued in an
even voice. "I've been most eager to meet the man who is suddenly so
interesting to our Portuguese friends. Although I have a personal rule
never to dabble in the affairs of Europeans, as a sportsman I must
congratulate you on your victory. A pity I missed the encounter."
"I accept your congratulations on behalf of the East India Company."
Hawksworth watched him for some sign of his attitude toward the
Portuguese, but he could detect nothing but smooth diplomacy.
"Yes, the East India Company. I suppose this company of yours wants
something from India, and I can easily imagine it might be profit.
Perhaps I should tell you straightaway that such matters bore me not a
little." The man glanced impatiently back toward the field. "But come,
it's growing darker as we talk. I'd hoped you might join us in our
little game. It's elementary. Should be child's play for a man who
commands at sea." He turned to one of the men standing by the side of
the field. "Ahmed, prepare a stick for Captain ... by the way, I wasn't
given your name."
"Hawksworth."
"Yes. Prepare a stick for Captain Hawksworth. He'll be joining us."
Hawksworth stared at the man, trying to gauge his impulsiveness.
"You, I presume, are the governor."
"Forgive me. I so rarely find introductions required. Mukarrab Khan,
your humble servant. Yes, it's my fate to be governor of Surat, but
only because there's no outpost less interesting. But come, we lose
precious time." He pivoted his pawing mount about and signaled for a
new ball to be ignited.
"You'll find our game very simple, Captain Hawksworth. The object is to
take the ball between the posts you see there, what we call the _hal_.
There are two teams of five players, but we normally rotate players
every twenty minutes." His horse reared again in anticipation as the
new ball was brought onto the field. "Years ago we played only during
the hours of day, but then our Moghul's father, the great Akman,
introduced the burning ball, so he could play at night. It's _palas
_wood, very light and slow-burning."
Hawksworth felt a nudge on his hand and looked down to see a stick
being passed upward by one of the attendants. The handle was sheathed
in silver, and the stick itself was over six feet long, with a
flattened curve at the bottom, like a distorted shepherd's crook.
Hawksworth lifted it gingerly, testing its weight, and was surprised by
its lightness.
"You will be playing on the team of Abul Hasan." He nodded toward a
middle-aged man with a youthful face and no moustache. "He is a _qazi_
here in Surat, a judge who interprets and dispenses law, and when he's
not busy abusing the powers of his office, he presumes to challenge me
at _chaugan_." The official bowed slightly but did not smile. His
dappled gray mare was sniffing at the governor's stallion. "He thinks
he has me at a disadvantage, since in Agra we played with only one
goal, whereas here they use two, but _chaugan _is a test of skill, not
rules. He leads the white turbans." Only then did Hawksworth notice
that the governor's team all wore red turbans.
The governor waved to his attendant. "A clean turban for the English
captain."_
_"I'd prefer to play as I am." Hawksworth saw a flash of disbelief in
the governor's eyes. It was obvious he was never contradicted. "I never
wear a hat, though it seems in India I'm still called a _topiwallah_.
"Very well, Captain Hawksworth. The _topiwallah _wears no turban." He
seemed to smile as he turned to the other players and signaled for play
to start. "Abul Hasan's team is composed of Surat officials, Captain.
You will notice, however, that I am teamed with some of our merchants--
Muslim, of course, not Hindus--something I must do to ensure challenging
opponents. The mere presence of merchants here today should give you
some idea how very tedious I find living in Surat. In Agra no merchant
would be allowed near a _chaugan _field. But here my officials enjoy
winning their money so much that I am forced to relent." And he laughed
warmly.
The burning ball was slammed toward the middle of the field, and the
players spurred their horses after it in lunging pursuit. Hawksworth
gripped the _chaugan_ stick in his right hand and the reins in the
other as his mount galloped after the others, obviously eager to begin.
The red turbans reached the ball first, with the governor in the lead.
He caught the ball on a bounce and, wielding his stick in a graceful
arc, whipped it under the neck of the dark stallion and directly toward
the _hal_, while in the same motion reining in his mount sharply to
follow its trajectory.
But a white turban had anticipated his shot and was already in position
to intercept the ball. He cut directly in front of the governor's path
and with a practiced swipe bulleted the ball back toward the center of
the field, knocking a spray of sparks across the face of the governor's
horse. Mukarrab Khan's stallion seemed scarcely to notice as he reared,
whirled, and flew in chase.
The shot had passed over the heads of the three other white turbans and
bounced off the grass a few feet behind Hawksworth, still well to the
rear. Hawksworth reined his mount about and bore down on the ball,
beginning to feel some of the exhilaration of the play. He reached the
ball on its second bounce and with a rigid arc of his arm swung the
_chaugan _stick.
The impact recoiled a dizzying shock through the wood and up his right
shoulder. He dimly heard the cheers of his teammates, seeming to
congratulate him on his stroke. But where's the ball? he wondered as he
scanned the darkened, empty expanse down the field. Then he realized he
had only deflected it, back toward the three white turbans in the
center of the field. The last white turban in the row snared the ball
with his stick, deflecting it again, but now in the direction of the
reds.
Dust was boiling from the surface of the field, increasingly obscuring
the players and the play. The darkened arena had become a jostling mob,
friend scarcely distinguishable from foe, and all in pursuit of the
only certain object, the still-glowing ball. Hawksworth's eyes seared
and his throat choked as he raced after the others--always, it seemed,
bringing up the rear, while his mount took her head and rarely
acknowledged his awkward attempts to command. He clung to the iron ring
of his saddle, content merely to stay astride.
Give me a quarterdeck any day.
The red turbans again had command of the ball, and Hawksworth watched
as the governor now raced to the lead, urged on by his teammates. He
snared the ball effortlessly and with a powerful swing sent it arcing
back toward his own _hal_.
The other red turbans rushed in pursuit, but a white turban was already
at the _hal_, waiting to deflect the play. He snared the ball in the
crook of his stick and flung it back toward the center. The reds seemed
to anticipate this, for they reined as one man and dashed back. But now
a white had control, and he guided the ball alone across the grassy
expanse, while a phalanx of other whites rode guard. Hawksworth was
still lagging in front of his own _hal_ when suddenly he saw the ball
lofting toward him, a flaming mortar in the darkened sky.
It slammed to earth near his horse's flank, spewing sparks. He cut his
mare sharply to the left and galloped in pursuit. Above the shouts he
only dimly heard the reds thundering behind him, closing in as he
reached the ball and caught it in the curve of his stick.
Roll it, he told himself, keep it on the ground . . .
The reds were on him. In what seemed a swing for the ball, Abul Hasan
brought his stick in a wide arc, its hardened crook accurately
intersecting Hawksworth's directly in the middle. Hawksworth felt an
uneven shudder pulse through his arm and heard his own stick shatter.
The lower half flew to his right, and he watched in dismay as it sailed
across the path of Mukarrab Khan's mount, just as the governor cut
inward to block Hawksworth. The hard wood caught the dark stallion
directly across its front shins, and the horse stumbled awkwardly.
Hawksworth stared at horse and rider dumbly for a moment, as the
stallion lost its stride, and he suddenly realized the governor's horse
would fall. And when it did, Mukarrab Khan would be thrown directly
below the horses thundering behind them.
He cut his mount sharply to the right and deliberately slammed into the
governor's stallion. Mukarrab Khan's dazed eyes flashed understanding
and he stretched for the center ring of Hawksworth's saddle during the
fractional second their horses were in collision. At the same instant,
he disengaged himself from his own stirrups and pulled himself across
the neck of Hawksworth's mare.
Two alert reds pulled their mounts alongside Hawksworth and grabbed the
reins of his mare. The dark stallion collapsed in the dust behind them
with a pitiful neigh. Then it rose and limped painfully toward the edge
of the field, its left foreleg dangling shattered and useless. Mukarrab
Khan lowered himself to the ground with an elaborate oath.
A cheer sounded as the whites scored the ball unmolested.
Hawksworth was still watching the governor when one of the attendants
rushed from the sidelines, seized the silver-topped fragment of his
broken stick, and thrust it toward him.
"The silver is yours to keep, Sahib. It is the custom that one whose
_chaugan_ stick is broken in play may keep its silver tip. As a token
of bravery. For you it is especially deserved." He was short, swarthy,
and dressed in a dust- covered white shirt. He bowed slightly, while
his eyes gleamed their admiration in the darkness.
"Take it, Captain. It is an honor." Abul Hasan rode up stiffly,
brushing the dust from the mane of his horse. "No _feringhi_, to my
knowledge, has ever before attempted _chaugan_, and certainly none has
earned a silver knob."
"Captain Hawksworth, you rode well." Mukarrab Khan had commandeered a
mount and also drew alongside. There was a light scratch along the
right side of his face, and the whimsical look had vanished from his
eyes as he searched the faces clustered around. "A very curious
accident. It has never happened before." He stared directly at
Hawksworth. "How was your stick broken?"
"The _feringhi_ made an unfortunate swing, Excellency," Abul Hasan
interjected. "He played superbly, for a beginner, but he has still to
fully master the stroke."
"Obviously. But he compensated by his luck--my luck-- in saving me from a
fall. He rides well enough, no matter how uncertain his stroke." The
governor examined them both skeptically.
Hawksworth watched the exchange in incredulous silence. The _qazi_ may
be covering for his own accident. Or perhaps it wasn't an accident. And
if not, then he tried to kill the Mukarrab Khan in a way that would
look like it was my responsibility.
"I still maintain it was most curious." Mukarrab Khan turned to watch
as the stable-keepers prepared to shoot his favorite horse. "But tell
me now what you think of _chaugan_, Captain Hawksworth?"
"It's exhilarating. And dangerous. A seaman might say it's like taking
the whipstaff all alone in a gale, without a safety line." Hawksworth
tried unsuccessfully to decipher Mukarrab Khan's thoughts.
"A quaint analogy, but doubtless apt." He tried to smile. "You know,
Captain, there are those who mistakenly regard _chaugan _as merely a
game, whereas it is actually much, much more. It's a crucible of
courage. It sharpens one's quickness of mind, tests one's powers of
decision. The great Akman believed the same, and for that reason he
encouraged it years ago among his officials. Of course it requires
horsemanship, but in the last count it's a flawless test of manhood.
You did not entirely disappoint me. I suspect you English could one day
be worthy of our little game."
A shot rang out, and the governor's face went pale for an instant, his
eyes glossed with sadness. Then he turned again to Hawksworth.
"Deplorable waste. To think I bought him just last year especially for
_chaugan_. From a grasping Arab, a confirmed thief who sensed I fancied
that stallion and absolutely refused to bargain." The voice was calmer
now, the official facade returning. "But enough. Perhaps I could
interest you in a drink?"
He signaled toward the edge of the field, and a waiting groom ran
toward them, bearing a black clay pot with a long spout.
"The sun has set. Ramadan is finished for this year. So I will join
you. Let me show you how we drink on horseback." He lifted the pot
above his head, tilted the spout toward him, and caught the stream
effortlessly in his mouth. Then he passed it to Hawksworth. "It's
called _sharbat_. The _topiwallahs _all seem to like it and
mispronounce it 'sherbet.'"
The water was sugar sweet and tangy with bits of lemon. God, Hawksworth
thought, would we had barrels of this for the voyage home. As he drank,
drenching his beard, he first noticed the icy stars, a splendor of cold
fire in an overhead canopy. The town's smoke had been banished by the
freshening wind, and a placid silence now mantled the field. The
players were preparing to leave, and the grooms were harnessing the
remaining horses to lead them home.
"Tonight we feast to mark the end of Ramadan, Captain, our month of
fasting during daylight hours. It's an evening celebrating the return
of sensual pleasure." Mukarrab Khan stared at Hawksworth for a moment.
"By the looks of you, I'd suspect you're no Jesuit. I would be honored
if you could join me." He forced a blithe cheerfulness his weary eyes
belied.
As Hawksworth listened, he realized he very much wanted to go. To lose
himself for a time. And suddenly the words of Huyghen, and of Roger
Symmes, flashed through his mind. Of the India you would not want to
leave. _Until you would not be able to leave.
_As they rode toward the town, Mukarrab Khan fell silent. And Abul
Hasan, too, seemed lost in his own thoughts. Hawksworth slowly let his
horse draw to the rear in order to count the governor's personal
retinue of guards. Thirty men, with quivers of arrows beside their
saddle, pikes at their right stirrup, and a matchlock musket. As they
rode, the other horsemen eyed Hawksworth warily, keeping to themselves
and making no effort to talk. Hawksworth thought he sensed an
underlying hostility lurking through the crowd, but whether it was
between the merchants and officials, or toward him, he could not
discern.
Then a presumptuous thought passed through his mind.
Could this entire scene have been staged by Mukarrab Khan to somehow
test me? But to what purpose? What could he want to find out?
Whatever it was, I think he just may have found it.
Then he leaned back in the saddle, pushed aside his misgivings, and
sampled the perfumed evening air.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were deep within the center of Surat, nearing the river,
when suddenly the street opened onto a wide stone-paved plaza. The
first thing Hawksworth saw through the torchlight was a high iron
fence, sentries posted with bucklers and pikes along its perimeter, and
an ornate iron gate. Then, as they neared, he realized the fence was
the outer perimeter of an immense pink sandstone fortress, with high
turrets and a wide, arched entryway. Finally he spotted the water-
filled moat that lay between the fence and the fortress walls. The moat
was spanned by a single wooden bridge, and Hawksworth noted that when
the bridge was drawn inward it neatly sealed the entry of the fortress.
As they approached the iron outer gate, the party of _chaugan _players
began to disperse; after formal and minimal farewells the merchants and
officials turned and disappeared into the night. Soon only Hawksworth
and Mukarrab Khan were left, together with the governor's private
grooms and guards. Hawksworth studied the departing players with
curiosity. What sway does Mukarrab Khan hold over them? Respect? Fear?
Then the iron gate swung wide and their horses clattered across the
wooden drawbridge. Hawksworth looked about and began to understand that
the governor's palace guards were not merely ceremonial. Lining both
sides of the drawbridge were uniformed infantrymen armed with pikes.
Then as they passed under the stone archway leading into the fortress,
Hawksworth turned to see even more armed guards, poised just inside,
pikes in formal salute. And farther back he saw two armored animals,
gigantic, many times larger than the biggest horse, with massive ears
and a snout several feet in length.
That must be what a war elephant looks like. So they really do exist.
But why so many guards? It's virtually a private army.
Then he felt a groom tug the reins of his horse and signal for him to
dismount. They were now inside the palace grounds. Ahead, through an
intricate formal garden, stood the residence of the governor of Surat.
The elaborate carvings of its pink sandstone decoration reflected hard
red in the torchlight.
Mukarrab Khan directed him through a marble entryway,
ornately rounded at the top like the turret of a mosque. They had
entered some form of reception hallway, and Hawksworth noticed that the
marble floor was decorated with a complex geometry of colored stone.
Above his head were galleries of white plasterwork supported by
delicate arches, and along the sides were ornate, curtained recesses.
Hanging oil lamps brilliantly illuminated the glistening walls, while
rows of servants dressed in matching white turbans lined the sides in
welcome.
As they approached the end of the reception hallway, Hawksworth studied
the door ahead. It was massive, and thick enough to withstand any war
machine that could be brought into the hallway, and yet its protective
function was concealed from obvious notice by a decoration of intricate
carvings and a flawless polish. The servants slowly revolved it outward
on its heavy brass hinges and Mukarrab Khan led them into a vast open
courtyard surrounded by a veranda, with columns supporting balconies of
marble filigree. It seemed a vast reception hall set in the open air,
an elegant plaza whose roof was stars, and whose centerpiece was a
canopied pavilion, under which stood a raised couch of juniper wood
lined with red satin--not unlike an English four-poster bed, save the
posts were delicately thin and polished to a burnished ebony. Large
bronze lanterns along the balconies furnished a flickering vision of
the complex interworking of paths, flower beds, and fountains
surrounding the central pavilion.
Waiting on the veranda, just inside the entryway, were six tall
figures, three on either side of the doorway. They were turbaned,
exquisitely robed, and wore conspicuous jewels that gleamed against
their dark skin. As they bowed to the governor, Hawksworth examined
them for a brief moment and then his recognition clicked.
Eunuchs. They must be Mukarrab Khan's private guards, since they can go
anywhere, even the women's apartments.
"Captain Hawksworth, perhaps you should meet my household officials.
They are Bengalis--slaves actually-- whom I bought young and trained
years ago in Agra. One must, regrettably, employ eunuchs to maintain a
household such as this. One's palace women can never be trusted, and
one's intriguing wives least of all. I named them in the Arab fashion,
after their position in the palace, so I need not trouble to remember
their names, merely what they do. This is Nahir, who is in charge of my
accounts." He gestured toward a pudgy face now glaring out from beneath
a deep blue headdress, a tall conical turban tied in place with a wrap
of white silk that circled his bloated throat. The eunuch's open jacket
was a heavy brocade and it heaved as he breathed, betraying the sagging
fat around his nipples.
"The one next to him selects my wardrobe." The second eunuch gazed at
Hawksworth impassively, his puffed, indulgent lips red with betel
juice. "That one selects the clothes for my spendthrift women, and the
one on his left is responsible for all their jewels. The one over there
takes care of the household linens and oversees the servants. And the
one behind him is in charge of the kitchen. You will be asked to endure
his handiwork tonight."
The eunuchs examined Hawksworth's ragged appearance with transparent
contempt, and they seemed to melt around him as he walked through the
doorway--two ahead, two behind, and one on either side. None spoke a
greeting. Hawksworth examined them carefully, wondering which was in
charge of the women's apartments. That's the most powerful position, he
smiled to himself, nothing else really counts.
A servant came down the veranda bearing a tray and brought it directly
to the governor. Then he kneeled and offered it. It was of beaten
silver and on it were two large crystal goblets of a pastel green
liquid.
"Captain, would you care to refresh yourself with a glass of _tundhi_.
It's the traditional way we break the fast of Ramadan." He directed the
servant toward Hawksworth. "It's prepared in the women's apartments
during the day, as an excuse for something to do."
Hawksworth touched the drink lightly with his tongue. It was a mixture
of sweet and tang quite unlike anything he had ever known. Perhaps the
closest was a brisk mug of spiced
ale, pungent with clove and cinnamon. But this spiced drink was
mysteriously subtle. Puzzling, he turned to Mukarrab Khan.
"What is this? It tastes like the air in a garden."
"This? I've never paid any notice, although the women down it by the
basinful after sunset." As he received his own goblet he turned to one
of the eunuchs. "Nahir, how do the women prepare _tundhi_?"
"With seeds, Khan Sahib. Seeds of melons, cucumber, lettuce, and
coriander are pounded, and then blended with rosewater, pomegranate
essence, and juice of the aloe flower. But the secret is to strain it
properly, and I find I must carefully oversee the work."
"Doubtless." Mukarrab Khan's voice was curt. "I suspect you should
attend the accounts more and the women's apartments less." He turned to
another eunuch.
"Is my bath ready?"
"As always, Khan Sahib." As the eunuch bowed he examined Hawksworth's
dust-covered face and hair discreetly. "Will the distinguished
_feringhi _also require a bath?"
"He was on the _chaugan _field this afternoon, just as I was."
Hawksworth groaned inwardly. What English host would have the
effrontery to suggest a guest needed a bath? For that matter, what
Englishman would even consider bathing more than twice a year? It's
known well enough King James never bathes, that he never even washes
his hands, only brushes them with a moist napkin at mealtime. Yet this
Moor wants a full bath before a meal, merely to remove a bit of dust.
"I would be content to rinse my hands."
Mukarrab Khan examined him for a moment and then broke into a wide
smile. "I always forget _feringhi _are positively afraid of water." He
spoke quickly to one of the eunuchs, who turned and barked orders to
the servants in a language Hawksworth did not understand.
"The servants will provide whatever you require." Mukarrab Khan bowed
perfunctorily to Hawksworth and disappeared through one of the arched
doorways leading off the courtyard, followed by the eunuchs. Then
Hawksworth turned to see a dark-skinned man bearing a large silver
basin down the veranda. Behind him a second man carried a red velvet
cushion, shaped like a long cylinder, and placed it on a stool next to
the canopied pavilion, gesturing for Hawksworth to sit.
As Hawksworth seated himself and turned toward the basin the servant
held waiting, he caught the fresh aroma of a full bouquet, as though
the fragrances of some tropic Eden had been distilled into the water.
He looked down to see flower petals floating on its shimmering, oil-
covered surface. How curious, he thought. English countrywomen
sometimes distill toilet water from the flowers in their gardens, but
never in such quantities'that it can be used merely to wash hands. And
while English toilet waters are cloying and sweet, violets and
gilliflowers, this aroma is light and delicate.
War elephants and perfumed waters, in the same palace. It's incredible.
He gingerly splashed his hands, and looked up to find a steaming towel
being proffered. He sponged away the remaining mud of the playing field
and watched as one by one the servants began to melt into the darkened
recesses of the marble galleries. The last was an old withered
gamekeeper, who wandered through the garden berating a sullen peacock
toward its roost. And then the courtyard fell austerely quiet.
Illuminated now only by lanterns and pale moonlight, it became a
fairyland almost outside of time. He smiled as he thought of where he
had been only the previous night--fending off an attack by Portuguese
infantry. And now, this.
His thoughts began to drift randomly, to float in and among the marble
latticework of the veranda. And he thought once more of Roger Symmes
and his bizarre stories of India.
He was right. It's a heaven on earth. But with an undertow of violence
just beneath the serene, polished surface. All this beauty, and yet
it's guarded with war elephants and a moat. It's a world that's . . .
artificial. It's carved of marble and jewels, and then locked away. Now
I'm beginning to understand why he found it so enticing. And
frightening. God, for a brandy. Now.
"Khan Sahib awaits you." Hawksworth looked up to see the eunuch
standing directly in front of him, freshly attired in a long robe of
patterned silk. As he rose, startled from his reveries, a pudgy hand
shot out and seized his arm.
"Your sword is not permitted in the banquet room."
Hawksworth froze. Then he remembered the knife strapped inside the top
of his boot and the thought gave him comfort.
He unbuckled his sword slowly, deliberately, pausing to meet the
eunuch's defiant stare as he passed it over.
The eunuch seemed to ignore Hawksworth's look as he continued.
"You will also remove your boots. It is against custom to wear them in
the banquet room."
Hawksworth moved to protest, then sadly concluded there would be no
point. Of course the room would be filled with carpets. And that must
be the reason everyone I've seen here wears open shoes with the backs
folded down: they're constantly being removed at doorways.
He bent over and unbuckled his boots. The eunuch stiffened momentarily
when he saw the glint of the knife handle in the lamplight, but he said
nothing, merely swept up the boots with his other hand.
As they walked slowly down the marble hallway toward the bronzed door
of the banquet room, Hawksworth tried to rehearse what he would say to
Mukarrab Khan.
He has to petition the court in Agra to grant safe conduct for the
trip. He just has to send one letter. How can he possibly refuse?
Remember, you're an ambassador. . . .
The eunuch shoved wide the bronzed door, and Hawksworth was astonished
by what he saw.
The governor of Surat lounged against a purple velvet bolster at the
far end of a long room whose walls were a cool expanse of flawless
white and whose marble floor was softened with an enormous carpet in
the thick Persian style. His skin glistened with light oil, and he had
donned a fresh turban, patterned in brown and white, tied in intricate
swirls, and bound with a strand of dark jewels. A single large pearl
hung over his forehead, and two tassels, each also suspending a pearl,
brushed his shoulders. He wore a tight-fitting patterned shirt in pale
brown, and over this a heavy green vest lined in white satin and
embroidered in gold. It was bound with a woven cinch decorated with
brocade. Around his neck were two strings of pearls, the shorter
suspending a large ruby from its center. He had put on heavy bracelets,
and intricate rings circled the first and fourth fingers of both hands.
Hawksworth also noticed for the first time that he wore earrings, each
a tiny green emerald.
The eunuchs stood behind him, and around the sides of the room servants
and slaves stood waiting. Along a back wall two men sat silently
poised, one behind a pair of small drums and the other holding an
ornate stringed instrument, its polished body glistening in the light.
The only women in the room mingled among the servers.
"Captain Hawksworth, our fare tonight will be simple and unworthy, but
please honor my table by your indulgence." Mukarrab Khan smiled warmly
and motioned Hawksworth to enter. "At least we can talk freely."
"Is this an official meeting?" Hawksworth did not move, but stood as
officiously as he could muster.
"If you wish. Our meeting can be considered formal, even if we are
not."
"Then as ambassador of His Majesty, King James of England, I must
insist that you rise to receive me." Hawksworth tried to suppress the
feeling that he looked vaguely foolish as a barefoot ambassador. But no
one else in the room wore shoes either. "A governor is still his king's
subject. I represent my king's person."
"I was not informed you were an ambassador." Mukarrab Khan's face
sobered noticeably, but he did not move. "You are Captain-General of
two merchant vessels."
"I'm here in the name of the king of England, with authority to speak
for him in all matters regarding trade." Hawksworth recalled the effect
this had had on the Shahbandar. "I'm entrusted with his personal letter
to the Moghul."
Mukarrab Khan examined Hawksworth for a long moment, seeming to collect
and assemble a number of thoughts.
"Your request would be proper for an ambassador. Let us say I comply in
the interest of mutual good will." He rose and bowed formally, if only
sightly, more a nod. "The governor of Surat welcomes you, a
representative of the English king."
"And I convey my king's acknowledgement of your welcome." Hawksworth
entered and seated himself facing Mukarrab Khan, against a large velvet
bolster already positioned for him.
"And what is this letter your English king sends to His Majesty?"
Mukarrab Khan reclined back on his own bolster and arched his
fingertips together.
"That is a concern between King James and the Moghul." Hawksworth
caught the quickly suppressed flash of anger in Mukarrab Khan's eyes.
"I only ask that you petition the court in Agra for permission to
travel there. It would also be helpful if you would order the
Shahbandar to allow our merchants to trade their goods at the port of
Surat."
"Yes, I understand you had the pleasure of meeting our Shahbandar. I
regret deeply having to tell you I have virtually no influence over
that notorious man. He was appointed by the Moghul's son, Prince Jadar,
who is in charge of administering this province. He acts very much as
he pleases."
Lie number one, Hawksworth thought: you forced him to order my transfer
here.
"Surely you're aware," Mukarrab Khan continued evenly, "that no other
Europeans besides the Portuguese have ever before landed cargo on the
shores of India. Arabs, Persians, even Turks are a common sight, but no
other Europeans. Not even your Dutch, who, I'm told, consort with some
of our southeastern neighbors. In fact, the Moghul's trade agreement
with the Portuguese is intended to exclude all other Europeans."
Mukarrab Khan stirred on his bolster and signaled one of the eunuchs to
prepare the carpet for dining. "Although frankly he has little choice,
since they control the seas. In fact, it might be said that they allow
our merchants to trade. Indian cargo vessels must all acquire a license
from Portuguese officials in Goa before leaving port."
"The Portugals control India's trade because you've allowed them to.
Your territorial waters belong to India, or should."
Mukarrab Khan seemed to ignore Hawksworth as he watched the servants
spread a large covering of tooled leather across the carpet in front of
them. After a moment his concentration reappeared, and he turned
abruptly.
"Ambassador Hawksworth, we do not need to be advised by you how India
should manage her own affairs. But perhaps I will advise you that His
Excellency, the Portuguese Viceroy, has already sent notice by
messenger that he intends to lodge charges of piracy against your two
ships. He has requested that they be confiscated and that you, your
merchants, and your crews be transferred to Goa for trial."
Hawksworth's heart stopped and he examined Mukarrab Khan in dismay. So
the _chaugan _match had merely been an excuse to take him into
confinement. After a moment he stiffened and drew himself erect. "And I
say the Portugals were the ones acting as pirates. Their attack on our
English merchantmen was in violation of the treaty of peace that now
exists between England and Spain, and by extension to the craven
Portugals, who are now nothing more than a vassal of the Spanish king."
"Yes, I've heard rumors of this treaty. We in India are not entirely
ignorant of Europe. But His Excellency denies there's any such treaty
extending to our shores. As I recall he characterized England as an
island of stinking fishermen, who should remain content to fish their
own sea."
"The treaty between England and Spain exists." Hawksworth decided to
ignore the insult. "We have exchanged ambassadors and it is honored by
both our kings. It ended almost two decades of war."
"I will grant you such a treaty may indeed exist. Whether it applies
here I do not know. Nor, frankly, do I particularly care. What I do
know, English ambassador, is that you are very far from the law courts
of Europe. The Portuguese still control the seas off India, as they
have done for a hundred years. And unenforceable treaties have little
bearing on the rule of might."
"We showed you the 'might' of the Portugals yesterday."
Mukarrab Khan laughed heartily, and when he glanced toward his eunuchs,
they returned obsequious grins. "You are truly more naive than I ever
imagined, English Captain Hawksworth. What effect can one small
engagement have on the fleet of warships at Goa? If you want protection
at sea, you will have to provide it yourself. Is that what your king
hopes to gain from the Moghul, or from me?"
"I told you I have only two requests. One is your message to Agra
requesting permission for my journey. The other is your approval to
trade the cargo we've brought."
"Yes, so you have said. Unfortunately, what you ask may not be all that
easy to grant. Your unhappy engagement with the Portuguese Viceroy's
fleet has made my situation more than a trifle awkward." He leaned back
and spoke rapidly in Persian to the eunuchs standing behind him. Then
he turned back to Hawksworth. "But as one of our Agra poets, a Sufi
rascal named Samad, once penned, The thread of life is all too short;
the soul tastes wine and passes on.' Before we explore these tiresome
concerns further, let us taste some wine."
The eunuchs were already dictating orders to the servants. A silver
chalice of fresh fruit appeared beside Hawksworth, brimming with
mangoes, oranges larger than he had ever before seen, slices of melon,
and other unknown fruits of varied colors. A similar bowl was placed
beside Mukarrab Khan, who seemed to ignore it. Then as Hawksworth
watched, the servants began spreading a white linen cloth over the red
leather coverlet that had been placed on the carpet in front of them.
"A host is expected, Ambassador, to apologize for the meal he offers. I
will take the occasion to do that now." Mukarrab Khan flashed a
sprightly smile. "But perhaps after your months at sea, you will be
lenient. For my own part, I have fasted today, and there's an Arab
proverb that hunger is the best spice. Still, I prefer leisurely
gratification. I concur with our Hindu sensualists that pleasure
prolonged is pleasure enhanced. All pleasure. Perhaps this evening you
will see their wisdom."
Before Hawksworth could respond, two heavy doors at the back of the
room slowly opened, glinting the lamplight off their elaborate filigree
of gold and bronze, and the first trays appeared, covered with silver
lids and borne by young men from the kitchen. Uniformed servants
preceded them into the room. One by one the trays were passed to the
eunuchs, who removed their lids and carefully inspected the contents of
each dish. After a brief consultation, the eunuchs ordered several of
the dishes returned to the kitchen.
Hawksworth suddenly realized he was ravenous, and he watched the
departing dishes in dismay. Did they somehow fail the eunuchs' exacting
standards? Sweet Jesus, who cares? It all looks delicious.
After final approval by the eunuchs, the silver serving bowls were
passed to servants waiting along the sides of the room, who in turn
arrayed them across the linen cloth between Hawksworth and Mukarrab
Khan. A chief server then knelt behind the dishes, while several stacks
of porcelain plates were placed next to him. Hawksworth tried to count
the silver serving bowls, but stopped after twenty.
One by one the server ceremoniously removed the silver lids from the
bowls. Beneath them the contents of the dishes had been arrayed in the
colors of a rainbow. On beds of rice that ranged from white to saffron
to green, and even purple, was an overwhelming array of meats, fish,
and birds of all sizes. There were carved baked fruits; tiny balls of
meat flaked with spice and coconut; fried vegetables surrounded by
silver cups of a pastel green sauce; large flat fish encased in dark
baking shells flecked with red and green spices; and a virtual aviary
of wild fowl, from small game birds to plump pea hens.
The server dished hearty helpings from each bowl onto separate
porcelain plates, together with mounds of almond rice and jellied
fruits. As he started to pass the first plate to Hawksworth, Mukarrab
Khan roughly arrested his hand. "This ill-bred kitchen _wallah_ will
serve in the stables after tonight." He seized the serving spoons and,
with a flourish of traditional Moghul etiquette, personally laded extra
portions from each of the dishes onto Hawksworth's plates. The server
beamed a knowing smile.
Hawksworth stared at the food for a moment, dazzled, and then he
gingerly sampled a meatball. The taste was delicious, yet hardy, and he
caught the musky flavor of lamb, lightened and transmuted by a bouquet
of spice. He next pulled away the side of a fish and wolfed it, before
realizing the red and green flecks on its surface were some incendiary
garnish. He surveyed the room in agony, praying for a mug of ale, till
an alert eunuch signaled a servant to pass a dish of yogurt. To his
amazement, the tangy, ice cold liquid seemed to instantly dissolve the
fire on his tongue.
He plunged back into the dishes. He had never eaten like this before,
even in England. He suddenly recalled with a smile an episode six
months into the voyage. After Zanzibar, when he had become so weary of
stale salt pork and biscuit he thought he could not bear to see it
again, he had locked the door of the Great Cabin and composed a full
English banquet in his mind--roast capon, next a pigeon pie larded in
bacon fat, then a dripping red side of roast mutton, followed by
oysters on the shell spiced with grilled eel, and finally a thick goose
pudding on honeyed ham. And to wash it down, a bottle of sack to begin
and a sweet muscadel, mulled even sweeter with sugar, to end. But this!
No luscious pork fat, and not nearly cloying enough for a true
Englishman. Yet it worked poetry. Symmes was right. This was heaven.
With both hands he ripped the leg off a huge bird that had been basted
to a glistening red and, to the visible horror of the server, dipped it
directly into one of the silver bowls of saffron sauce meant for pigeon
eggs. Hawksworth looked up in time to catch the server's look.
Does he think I don't like the food?
To demonstrate appreciation, he hoisted a goblet of wine to toast the
server, while he stretched for a piece of lamb with his other hand. But
instead of acknowledging the compliment, the server went pale.
"It's customary, Ambassador, to use only one's right hand when eating."
Mukarrab Khan forced a polite smile. "The left is normally reserved for
. . . attending to other functions."
Hawksworth then noticed how Mukarrab Khan was dining. He, too, ate with
his fingers, just as you would in England, but somehow he managed to
lift his food gracefully with balls of rice, the sauce never soiling
his fingertips.
A breeze lightly touched Hawksworth's cheek, and he turned to see a
servant standing behind him, banishing the occasional fly with a large
whisk fashioned from stiff horsehair attached to a long stick. Another
servant stood opposite, politely but unnecessarily cooling him with a
large fan made of red leather stretched over a frame.
"As I said, Ambassador, your requests present a number of
difficulties." Mukarrab Khan looked up and took a goblet of fruit
nectar from a waiting servant. "You ask certain things from me, things
not entirely in my power to grant, while there are others who make
entirely different requests."
"You mean the Portugals."
"Yes, the Portuguese Viceroy, who maintains you have acted illegally,
in violation of his law and ours, and should be brought to account."
"And I accuse them of acting illegally. As I told you, there's been a
Spanish ambassador in London ever since the war ended, and when we
return I assure you the East India Company will . . ."
"This is India, Captain Hawksworth, not London. Please understand I
must consider Portuguese demands. But we are pragmatic. I urge you to
tell me a bit more about your king's intentions. Your king's letter.
Surely you must know what it contains."
Mukarrab Khan paused to dip a fried mango into a shimmering orange
sauce, asking himself what he should do. He had, of course, posted
pigeons to Agra at sunrise, but he suspected already what the reply
would be. He had received a full account of the battle, and the attack
on the river, before the early, pre-sun Ramadan meal. And it was only
shortly afterward that Father Manoel Pinheiro had appeared, frantic and
bathed in sweat. Was it a sign of Portuguese contempt, he often
wondered, that they would assign such an incompetent to India?
Throughout their entire Society of Jesus, could there possibly be any
priest more ill-bred? The Jesuit had repeated facts already known
throughout the palace, and Mukarrab Khan had listened politely, masking
his amusement. How often did a smug Portuguese find himself explaining
a naval disaster? Four Portuguese warships, galleons with two gundecks,
humiliated by two small English frigates. How, Mukarrab Khan had
wondered aloud, could this have happened?
"There were reasons, Excellency. We have learned the English captain
fired langrel into our infantry, shredded metal, a most flagrant
violation of the unwritten ethics of warfare."
"Are there really supposed to be ethics in warfare? Then I suppose you
should have sent only two of your warships against him. Instead you
sent four, and still he prevailed. Today he has no need for excuses.
And tell me again what happened when your infantry assaulted the
English traders on the river?" Mukarrab Khan had monitored the Jesuit's
eyes in secret glee, watching him mentally writhe in humiliation. "Am I
to understand you could not even capture a pinnace?"
"No one knows, Excellency. The men sent apparently disappeared without
a trace. Perhaps the English had set a trap." Father Pinheiro had
swabbed his greasy brow with the sleeve of his cassock. His dark eyes
showed none of the haughty disdain he usually brought to their
meetings. "I would ask you not to speak of it outside the palace. It
was, after all, a special mission."
"You would prefer the court in Agra not know?"
"There is no reason to trouble the Moghul, Excellency." The Jesuit
paused carefully. "Or Her Majesty, the queen. This really concerns the
Viceroy alone." The Jesuit's Persian was grammatically flawless, if
heavily accented, and he awkwardly tried to leaven it with the polite
complexities he had been taught in Goa. "Still less is there any need
for Prince Jadar to know."
"As you wish." Mukarrab Khan had nodded gravely, knowing the news had
already reached half of India, and most certainly Prince Jadar. "How,
then, may I assist?"
"The English pirate and his merchants must be delayed here at least
four weeks. Until the fleet of galleons now unlading in Goa, those of
the spring voyage just arrived from Lisbon, can be outfitted to meet
him."
"But surely he and his merchants will sail when they choose. And sooner
if we deny them trade. Do you suggest that I approve this trade?"
"You must act as you see fit, Excellency. You know the Viceroy has
always been of service to Queen Janahara." Pinheiro had paused slyly.
"Just as you have been."
The cynicism of Pinheiro's flaunting his knowledge had galled Mukarrab
Khan most of all. If this Jesuit knew, who else must know? That the
governor of Surat was bound inescapably to the queen. That on any
matter involving Portuguese trade he must always send a formal message
to the Moghul and a secret one to the queen, and then wait while she
dictated the ruling Arangbar would give. Did this Jesuit know also why
Mukarrab Khan had been exiled from Agra? To the wilderness of
provincial Surat? That it was on orders of the queen, to marry and take
with him a woman becoming dangerous, the _zenana _favorite of the
Moghul, before the woman's influence outweighed that even of Janahara.
And now this female viper was in his palace forever, could not be
removed or divorced, because she was still a favorite of the Moghul's.
"So you tell me I must make them rich before you can destroy them. That
seems to be Christian wisdom at its most incisive." Mukarrab Khan had
summoned a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying that the interview
was ended. "It is always a pleasure to see you, Father. You will have
my reply when Allah wills."
The Jesuit had departed as awkwardly as he had come, and it was then
that Mukarrab Khan decided to meet the Englishman for himself. While
there was still time. How long, he wondered, before the Shahbandar
realized the obvious? And the prince?"
In the banquet room the air was now dense with the aroma of spice.
Hawksworth realized he had so gorged he could scarcely breathe. And he
was having increasing difficulty deflecting Mukarrab Khan's probing
questions. The governor was skillfully angling for information he
properly did not need, and he did not seem a man given to aimless
curiosity.
"What do you mean when you ask about the 'intentions' of England?"
"If the Moghul should approve a trade agreement with your East India
Company, what volume of goods would you bring through our port here in
Surat?" Mukarrab Khan smiled disarmingly. "Is the Company's fleet
extensive?"
"That's a matter better addressed to the merchants of the Company."
Hawksworth monitored Mukarrab Khan's expression, searching for a clue
to his thoughts. "Right now the Company merely wishes to trade the
goods in our two merchantmen. English wool for Indian cotton."
"Yes, I am aware that was the first of your two requests." Mukarrab
Khan motioned away the silver trays. "Incidentally, I hope you are fond
of lamb."
The bronzed doors opened again and a single large tray was borne in by
the dark-skinned, unsmiling servants. It supported a huge cooking
vessel, still steaming from the oven. The lid was decorated with
lifelike silver castings of various birds and animals. After two
eunuchs examined it, the servants delivered it to the center of the
linen serving cloth.
"Tonight to signify the end of Ramadan I instructed my cooks to prepare
my special biryani. I hope you will not be disappointed. My kitchen
here is scandalous by Agra standards, but I've succeeded in teaching
them a few things."
The lid was lifted from the pot and a bouquet of saffron burst over the
room. Inside, covering a flawless white crust, was a second menagerie
of birds and animals, wrought from silver the thinness of paper. The
server spooned impossible portions from the pot onto silver plates, one
for Hawksworth and one for Mukarrab Khan. The silver-foil menagerie was
distributed around the sides of each plate.
"Actually I once bribed a cook in the Moghul's own kitchen to give me
this recipe. You will taste nothing like it here in Surat."
Hawksworth watched as he assembled a ball of the rice-and-meat melange
with his fingers and reverently popped it into his mouth.
"Please try it, Ambassador. I think you'll find it remarkable. It
requires the preparation of two sauces, and seems to occupy half my
incompetent kitchen staff." The governor smiled appreciatively.
Hawksworth watched dumbfounded as he next chewed up and swallowed one
of the silver-foil animals.
Hawksworth tried to construct a ball of the mixture but finally
despaired and simply scooped up a handful. It was rich but light, and
seemed to hint of every spice in the Indies.
"There are times," Mukarrab Khan continued, "when I positively yearn
for the so-called deprivation of Ramadan. When the appetite is whetted
day long, the nightly indulgence is all the more gratifying."
Hawksworth took another mouthful of the savory mixture. After the many
long months of salt meat and biscuit, he found his taste confused and
overwhelmed by its complexity. Its spices were all assertive, yet he
could not specifically identify a single one. They had been blended, it
seemed, to enhance one another, to create a pattern from many parts,
much as the marble inlays of the floor, in which there were many
colors, yet the overall effect was that of a single design, not its
components.
"I've never tasted anything quite like this, even in the Levant. Could
you prepare instructions for our ship's cook?"
"It would be my pleasure, Ambassador, but I doubt very much a
_feringhi_ cook could reproduce this dish. It's far too complex. First
my kitchen prepares a masala, a blend of nuts and spices such as
almonds, turmeric, and ginger. The bits of lamb are cooked in this and
in ghee, which we make by boiling and clarifying butter. Next a second
sauce is prepared, this a lighter mixture--curds seasoned with mint,
clove, and many other spices I'm sure you know nothing of. This is
blended with the lamb, and then layered in the pot you see there
together with rice cooked in milk and saffron. Finally it's covered
with a crust of wheat flour and baked in a special clay oven. Is this
really something a ship's cook could do?"
Hawksworth smiled resignedly and took another mouthful.
Whoever thought there could be so many uses for spice. We use spice in
England, to be sure--clove, cinnamon, pepper, even ginger and cardamom--
but they're intended mainly to disguise the taste of meat past its
prime. But here spices are essential ingredients.
"Let us return to your requests, Captain Hawksworth. I'm afraid neither
of these is entirely within my power to bestow. In the matter of
trading privileges for your cargo, I'll see what can be done. Yours is
an unusual request, in the sense that no Europeans have ever come here
to war with the Portuguese, then asked to compete with them in trade."
"It seems simple enough. We merely exchange our goods for some of the
cotton cloth I saw arriving at the customs house this morning. The
Shahbandar stated you have the power to authorize this trade."
"Yes, I enjoy some modest influence. And I really don't expect that
Prince Jadar would object."
"He's the Moghul's son?"
"Correct. He has full authority over this province, but he's frequently
on campaign and difficult to reach. His other duties include
responsibility for military conscription here, and maintaining order.
These are somewhat uneasy times, especially in the Deccan, southeast of
here."
"When will we learn your decision, or his decision? There are other
markets for our goods."
"You will learn his decision when it is decided." Mukarrab Khan shoved
aside his plate and a servant whisked it from the carpet. "Concerning
your second request, that I petition Agra to authorize your travel
there, I will see what can be done. But it will require time."
"I would ask the request be sent immediately."
"Naturally." Mukarrab Khan watched absently as more brimming trays were
brought in, these piled with candied
fruits and sweetmeats. A hookah water pipe appeared and was placed
beside Hawksworth.
"Do you enjoy the new _feringhi _custom of smoking tobacco, Captain
Hawksworth? It was introduced recently, and already it's become
fashionable. So much so the Moghul just issued a decree denouncing it."
"King James has denounced it too, claiming it destroys health. But it's
also the fashion in London. Personally, I think it ruins the taste of
brandy, and wine."
"Overall I'm inclined to agree. But tell me now, what's your opinion of
the wine you're drinking? It's Persian."
"Better than the French. Though frankly it could be sweeter."
Mukarrab Khan laughed. "A common complaint from _topiwallahs_. Some
actually add sugar to our wine. Abominable." He paused. "So I gather
then you only use spirits?"
"What do you mean?"
"There are many subtle pleasures in the world, Ambassador. Liquors
admittedly enhance one's dining, but they do little for one's
appreciation of art."
As Hawksworth watched him, puzzling, he turned and spoke quietly to one
of the eunuchs hovering behind him. Moments later a small golden
cabinet, encrusted with jewels, was placed between them. Mukarrab Khan
opened a tiny drawer on the side of the box and extraced a small brown
ball.
"May I suggest a ball of _ghola_? He offered it to Hawksworth. It
carried a strange, alien fragrance.
"What's _ghola_?"
"A preparation of opium and spice, Ambassador. I think it might help
you better experience this evening's entertainment." He nodded lightly
in the direction of the rear wall.
The snap of a drum exploded behind Hawksworth, and he whirled to see
the two musicians begin tuning to perform. The drummer sat before two
foot-high drums, each nestled in a circular roll of fabric. Next to him
was a wizened old man in a black Muslim skullcap tuning a large six-
stringed instrument made of two hollowed-out gourds, both lacquered and
polished, connected by a long teakwood fingerboard. About a dozen
curved brass frets were tied to the fingerboard with silk cords, and as
Hawksworth watched, the player began shifting the location of two
frets, sliding them an inch or so along the neck to create a new
musical scale. Then he began adjusting the tension on a row of fine
wires that lay directly against the teakwood fingerboard, sympathetic
strings that passed beneath those to be plucked. These he seemed to be
tuning to match the notes in the new scale he had created by moving the
frets.
When the sitarist had completed his tuning, he settled back and the
room fell totally silent. He paused a moment, as though in meditation,
then struck the first note of a somber melody Hawksworth at first found
almost totally rootless. Using a wire plectrum attached to his right
forefinger, he seemed to be waving sounds from the air above the
fingerboard. A note would shimmer into existence from some undefined
starting point, then glide through the scale via a subtle arabesque as
he stretched the playing string diagonally against a fret, manipulating
its tension. Finally the sound would dissolve meltingly into its own
silence. Each note of the alien melody, if melody it could be called,
was first lovingly explored for its own character, approached from both
above and below as though a glistening prize on display. Only after the
note was suitably embroidered was it allowed to enter the melody--as
though the song were a necklace that had to be strung one pearl at a
time, and only after each pearl had been carefully polished. The
tension of some vague melodic quest began to grow, with no hint of a
resolution. In the emotional intensity of his haunting search, the
passage of time had suddenly ceased to exist.
Finally, as though satisifed with his chosen scale, he returned to the
very first note he had started from and actually began a song, deftly
tying together the musical strands he had so painstakingly evolved. The
sought-for resolution had never come, only the sense that the first
note was the one he had been looking for the entire time.
This must be the mystical music Symmes spoke of, Hawksworth thought,
and he was right. It's unlike anything I've ever heard. Where's the
harmony, the chords of thirds and fifths? Whatever's going on, I don't
think opium is going to help me understand it.
Hawksworth turned, still puzzling, back to Mukarrab Khan and waved away
the brown ball--which the governor immediately washed down himself with
fruit nectar.
"Is our music a bit difficult for you to grasp, Ambassador?" Mukarrab
Khan leaned back on his bolster with an easy smile. "Pity, for there's
truly little else in this backwater port worth the bother. The cuisine
is abominable, the classical dancers despicable. In desperation I've
even had to train my own musicians, although I did manage to steal one
Ustad, a grand master, away from Agra." He impulsively reached for the
water pipe and absorbed a deep draw, his eyes misting.
"I confess I do find it hard to follow." Hawksworth took a draft of
wine from the fresh cup that had been placed beside him on the carpet.
"It demands a connoisseur's taste, Ambassador, not unlike an
appreciation of fine wine."
The room grew ominously still for a moment, and then the drums suddenly
exploded in a torrent of rhythm, wild and exciting yet unmistakably
disciplined by some rigorous underlying structure. The rhythm soared in
a cycle, returning again and again, after each elaborate interlocking
of time and its divisions, back to a forceful crescendo.
Hawksworth watched Mukarrab Khan in fascination as he leaned back and
closed his eyes in wistful anticipation. And at that moment the
instrumentalist began a lightning-fast ascent of the scale, quavering
each note in erotic suggestiveness for the fraction of a second it was
fingered. The governor seemed absorbed in some intuitive communication
with the sound, a reaction to music Hawksworth had never before
witnessed. His entire body would perceptibly tense as the drummer began
a cycle, then it would pulse and relax the instant the cycle thudded to
a resolution. Hawksworth was struck by the sensuality inherent in the
music, the almost sexual sense of tension and release.
Then he noticed two eunuchs leading a young boy into the room. The
youth appeared to be hovering at the age of puberty, with still no
trace of a beard. He wore a small but elaborately tied pastel turban,
pearl earrings, and a large sapphire on a chain around his pale throat.
His elaborate ensemble included a transparent blouse through which his
delicate skin glistened in the lamplight, a long quilted sash at his
waist, and tight-fitting trousers beneath light gauze pajamas that
clung to his thighs as he moved. His lips were lightly red, and his
perfume a mixture of flowers and musk. The boy reached for a ball of
spiced opium and settled back against a quilted gold bolster next to
Mukarrab Khan. The governor studied him momentarily and then returned
to the music. And his thoughts.
He reflected again on Abul Hasan's blundering "accident" on the
_chaugan_ field, and what it must signify. If it were true the _qazi_
had been bought by the Shahbandar, as some whispered, then it meant
Mirza Nuruddin must be alarmed to the point of imprudence. Fearful of
what could happen if the English were detained long enough for the
Portuguese warships to prepare. Which meant that somewhere behind it
all lay the hand of Prince Jadar.
He examined Hawksworth again, wondering how this English captain could
have savaged the Viceroy's fleet with such embarrassing ease. What, he
asked himself again, will the queen order done?
"I'm sorry you don't find our music more congenial. Ambassador. Perhaps
I too would be wiser if I loved it less. The passion for classical
music has cost many a great warrior his kingdom in India over the last
centuries. For example, when the great Moghul patriarch Akman conquered
Baz Bahadur, once the proud ruler of Malwa, it was because that prince
was a better patron of music than of the arts of war." He smiled
reflectively. "Admittedly, the great Akman himself also flooded his
court with musicians, but then he had the wit to study arms as well.
Regrettably, I find myself lacking his strength of character."
He paused to take a sip of nectar, then shrugged. "But enough. Tell me
now what you really think of my Ustad, my master sitarist. There are
those in Agra who will never forgive me for stealing him away."
"I'm not sure what I think. I've never heard a composition quite like
the one he's playing."
"What do you mean by 'composition'?" Mukarrab Khan's tone was puzzled.
"That's how a piece of music is written out."
Mukarrab Khan paused and examined him skeptically for a long moment.
"Written out? You write down your music? But whatever for? Does that
mean your musicians play the same song again and again, precisely the
same way?"
"If they're good they do. A composer writes a piece of music and
musicians try to play it."
"How utterly tiresome." Mukarrab Khan sighed and leaned back on his
bolster. "Music is a living art, Ambassador. It's meant to illuminate
the emotions of the one who gives it life. How can written music have
any feeling? My Ustad would never play a raga the same way twice.
Indeed, I doubt he would be physically capable of such a boorish feat."
"You mean he creates a new composition each time he plays?"
"Not precisely. But his handling of the specific notes of a raga must
speak to his mood, mv mood. These vary, why not his art?"
"But what is a raga then, if not a song?"
"That's always difficult to explain. At some rudimentary level you
might say it's simply a melody form, a fixed series of notes around
which a musician improvises. But although a raga has a rigorously
prescribed ascending and descending note sequence and specific melodic
motifs, it also has its own mood, 'flavor.' What we call its _rasa_.
How could one possibly write down a mood?"
"I guess I see your point. But it's still confusing." Hawksworth took
another sip of wine. "How many ragas are there?"
"There are seventy-two primary scales on which ragas are based. But
some scales have more than one raga. There are ragas for morning, for
evening, for late at night. My Ustad is playing a late evening raga
now. Although he uses only the notes and motifs peculiar to this raga,
what he does with them is entirely governed by his feeling tonight."
"But why is there no harmony?"
"I don't understand what you mean by 'harmony.'"
"Striking several notes together, so they blend to produce a chord."
Mukarrab Khan studied him, uncomprehending, and Hawksworth continued.
"If I had my lute I'd show you how harmony and chords are used in an
English song." Hawksworth thought again of his instrument, and of the
difficulty he'd had protecting it during the voyage. He knew all along
it was foolish to bring it, but he often told himself every man had the
right to one folly.
"Then by all means." The governor's curiosity seemed to arouse him
instantly from the opium. "Would you believe I've never met a
_feringhi_ who could play an instrument, any instrument?"
"But my lute was detained, along with all my belongings, at the customs
house. I was going to retrieve my chest from the Shahbandar when you
intercepted his men."
"Ambassador, please believe I had good reason. But I thought I told you
arrangements have been made." He turned and dictated rapidly to one of
the eunuchs. There was an expressionless bow, and the man left the
room. Moments later he returned through the bronze entry doors,
followed by two dark-skinned servants carrying Hawksworth's chest, one
at each end.
"I ordered your belongings sent from the customs house this afternoon.
You would honor me by staying here as my guest." Mukarrab Khan smiled
warmly. "And now I would hear you play this English instrument."
Hawksworth was momentarily startled, wondering why his safety was
suddenly of such great interest to Mukarrab Khan. But he pushed aside
the question and turned to examine the large brass lock on his chest.
Although it had been newly polished to a high sheen, as had the entire
chest, there was no visible evidence it had been opened. He extracted
the key from his doublet, slipped it into the lock, and turned it
twice. It revolved smoothly, opening with a soft click.
The lute rested precisely where he had left it. Its body was shaped
like a huge pear cut in half lengthwise, with the back a glistening
melon of curved cedar staves and the face a polished cherry. The neck
was broad, and the head, where the strings were wound to their pegs,
angled sharply back. He admired it for a moment, already eager for the
touch of its dark frets. During the voyage it had been wrapped in heavy
cloth, sealed in oilskins, and stored deep in his cabin chest. Not till
landfall at Zanzibar had he dared expose it to the sea air.
Of all English music, he still loved the galliards of Dowland best. He
was only a boy when Dowland's first book of galliards was published,
but he had been made to learn them all by heart, because his exacting
tutor had despised popular ballads and street songs.
Mukarrab Khan called for the instrument and slowly turned it in the
lamplight, its polished cedar shining like a great jewel. He then
passed it to his two musicians, and a brief discussion in Persian
ensued, as brows were wrinkled and grave points adjudicated. After its
appearance was agreed upon, the instrumentalist gingerly plucked a gut
string with the wire plectrum attached to his forefinger and studied
its sound with a distant expression. The torrent of Persian began anew,
as each string was plucked in turn and its particular quality debated.
Then the governor revolved to Hawksworth.
"I congratulate your wisdom, Ambassador, in not hazarding a truly fine
instrument on a sea voyage. It would have been a waste of real
workmanship."
Hawksworth stared at him dumbfounded.
"There's not a finer lute in London." He seized it back. "I had it
specially crafted several years ago by a master, a man once lute-maker
to the queen. It's one of the last he made."
"You must pardon me then, but why no embellishment? No ivory inlay, no
carved decoration? Compare, if you will, Ustad Qasim's sitar. It's a
work of fine art. A full year was spent on its decoration. Note the
head has been carved as the body of a swan, the neck and pegs inlaid
with finest ivory, the face decorated with mother-of-pearl and _lapis
lazuli_. Your lute has absolutely no decoration whatsoever."
"The beauty of an instrument is in its tone."
"Yes, that's a separate point. But perhaps we should hear it played by
one skilled in its use. I must confess we are all curious what can be
done with so simple an instrument." Mukarrab Khan shifted on his
bolster, while the young man next to him toyed with a jewel, not
troubling to disguise his boredom.
Hawksworth tuned the strings quickly and meticulously. Then he settled
himself on the carpet and took a deep breath. His fingers were stiff,
his mind groggy with wine, but he would play a song he knew well. A
galliard Dowland had written when Queen Elizabeth was still alive, in
honor of a Cornwall sea captain named Piper, whom she'd given a letter
of marque to attack the Spanish, but who instead turned an
uncontrollable pirate, pillaging the shipping of any flag convenient.
He'd become an official outlaw but a genuine English folk hero, and
Dowland had honored his memory with a rousing composition--"Piper's
Galliard."
A full chord, followed by a run of crisp notes, cut the close air. The
theme was somber, a plaintive query in a minor mode followed by a
melodic but defiant reply. Just the answer Piper would have given to
the charges, Hawksworth thought.
The servants had all gathered to listen, and the eunuchs had stopped
gossiping. Then Hawksworth glanced toward the musicians, who had
shifted themselves onto the carpet to watch. Both the sitarist and his
drummer still eyed the instrument skeptically, no hint of appreciation
in their look.
Hawksworth had expected it.
Wait till they hear this.
He crouched over the lute and attacked the strings with all four
fingers, producing a dense toccata, with three melodic lines advancing
at once, two in the treble and one in the base. His hand flew over the
frets until it seemed every fingertip commanded a string, each
embellishing a theme another had begun. Then he brought the galliard to
a rousing crescendo with a flourish that spanned two entire octaves.
A polite silence seemed to grip the room. Mukarrab Khan sipped
thoughtfully from his cup for a moment, his jeweled rings refracting
the lamplight, then summoned a eunuch and whispered briefly in his ear.
As the eunuch passed the order to a hovering servant, Mukarrab Khan
turned to Hawksworth.
"Your English music is interesting, Ambassador, if somewhat simple." He
cleared his throat as an excuse to pause. "But frankly I must tell you
it touched only my mind. Not my heart. Although I heard it, I did not
feel it. Do you understand the difference? I sensed nothing of its
rasa, the emotion and desire one should taste at a moment like this,
the merging of sound and spirit. Your English music seems to stand
aloof, unapproachable." Mukarrab Khan searched for words. "It inhabits
its own world admirably, but it did not enter mine."
Servants suddenly appeared bearing two silver trays, on which were
crystal cups of green, frothy liquid. As the servant placed
Hawksworth's tray on the patterned carpet, he bowed, beaming. Mukarrab
Khan ignored his own tray and instead summoned the sitarist, Bahram
Qasim, to whisper brief instructions in his ear. Then the governor
turned to Hawksworth.
"Perhaps I can show you what I mean. This may be difficult for you, so
first I would urge you try a cup of _bhang_. It has the remarkable
effect of opening one's heart."
Hawksworth tested the beverage warily. Its underlying bitterness had
been obscured with sweet yogurt and potent spices. It was actually very
palatable. He drank again, this time thirstily.
"What did you call this? _Bhang?"
_"Yes, it's made from the leaves of hemp. Unlike wine, which only dulls
the spirit, _bhang _hones the senses. Now I've arranged a demonstration
for you."
He signaled the sitarist, and Bahram Qasim began the unmistakable theme
of "Piper's Galliard." The song was drawn out slowly, languorously, as
each individual note was introduced, lovingly explored for its own pure
sound, and then framed with microtone embellishment and a sensual
vibrato. The clear, simple notes of the lute were transmuted into an
almost orchestral richness by an undertone of harmonic density from the
sitar's sympathetic strings, the second row of wires beneath those
being plucked, tuned to match the notes of the song and respond without
being touched. Dowland's harmonies were absent, but now the entire room
resonated with a single majestic chord underlying each note. Gradually
the sitarist accelerated the tempo, while also beginning to insert his
own melodic variations over the original notes of the theme.
Hawksworth took another sip of _bhang _and suddenly noticed the notes
seemed to be weaving a tapestry in his mind, evolving an elaborate
pattern that enveloped the room with shapes as colored as the
geometries of the Persian carpet.
Next the drummer casually introduced a rhythmic underpinning, his lithe
fingers touring easily over and around the taut drumheads as he
dissected, then restructured the simple meter of Dowland's music. He
seemed to regard the original meter as merely a frame, a skeleton on
which the real artistry had yet to be applied. He knowingly subdivided
Dowland's meter into minuscule elements of time, and with these devised
elaborate new interlockings of sound and silence. Yet each new
structure always _Resolve_d to its perfect culmination at the close of
a musical phrase. Then as he punctuated his transient edifice with a
thud of the larger drum--much as an artist might sign a painting with an
elaborate flourish--he would catch Hawksworth's incredulous gaze and
wink, his eyes twinkling in triumph.
Meanwhile, the sitarist structured Dowland's spirited theme to the
drummer's frame, adding microtones Dowland had never imagined, and
matching the ornate tempo of the drum as they blended together to
become a single racing heartbeat.
Hawksworth realized suddenly that he was no longer merely hearing the
music, that instead he seemed to be absorbing it.
How curious . . .
The music soared on to a final crescendo, a simultaneous
climax of sitar and drum, and then the English song seemed to dissolve
slowly into the incense around them. After only a moment's pause, the
musicians immediately took up a sensuous late evening raga.
Hawksworth looked about and noticed for the first time that the lamps
in the room had been lowered, settling a semi- darkness about the
musicians and the moving figures around him. He felt for his glass of
_bhang_ and saw that it was dry, and that another had been placed
beside it. He drank again to clear his mind.
What's going on? Damned if I'll stay here. My God, it's impossible to
think. I'm tired. No, not tired. It's just . . . just that my mind is .
. . like I'd swilled a cask of ale. But I'm still in perfect control.
And where's Mukarrab Khan? Now there are screens where he was sitting.
Covered with peacocks that strut obscenely from one screen to the
other. And the eunuchs are all watching. Bastards. I'll take back my
sword. Jesus, where is it? I've never felt so adrift. But I'm not
staying. I'll take the chest and damn his eunuchs. And his guards. He
can't hold me here. Not even on charges. There are no charges. I'm
leaving. I'll find the men . . .
He pulled himself defiantly to his feet. And collapsed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The dream was more vivid than reality, intensely colored and
astir with vague forms that drifted through his mind's ken, appearing
then fading. The room seemed airless, a musk-filled cell of gilded blue
panels and gold brocade. Guarded faces hovered around and above, their
eyes intense yet unseeing, distant as stained-glass masks of cathedral
sinner and saint.
A fingertip brushed his cheek, and with its touch the room gloried in a
powerful fragrance of saffron. Then a hand, floating unattached, gently
removed his doublet; another slid away his mud-smeared breeches.
He was naked.
He looked down as though from afar at the texture of chest and thigh,
and he wondered dimly if they were his own. Then other hands . . . and
suddenly he was immersed in a sea whose shores were white marble, whose
surface sheened with oil of the rose. Translucent petals drifted
randomly atop the crests. Hands toured his frame, discovering every
tightened nerve, while powdered sandalwood enveloped his hair and beard
until he seemed lost in a fragrant forest.
As suddenly as the sea had come it drew away, but now there were
steaming wraps tingling with astringent orange and clove, and he
drifted through a land of aloe balm and amber.
The room dissolved into semi-darkness, until at last only a single face
remained, a woman with eyes round and moist and coldly dark. Her lips
were the deep red of betel, while her hair was coal and braided in a
skein of jeweled tresses. A faceted stone sparkled on her left nostril,
and heavy gold rings swung gently from each ear. Henna-red nipples
pressed erect against her diaphanous blouse, and between her breasts
clung a garland of pearls. The heavy bracelets on her wrists and her
upper arms glistened gold in the flickering candlelight.
As he studied her eyes, they seemed locked into his own, and betrayed
no notice of his body. He sent his voice through the dream's carpeted
chambers, but his words were swallowed in dark air that drew out their
sound and washed it to thin silence. In a final, awkward futility he
struggled to free himself from the velvet bolster.
But gently she pressed him back.
"What would you have, my love? Sweet _bhang _from my hand?"
A cup found his lips, and before he knew he had taken more of the
incendiary green confection. Its warmth grew slowly into a pale light
that shimmered off the gilded panels and then coalesced into the
rainbow now pivoting pendulum-like above him, a glistening fan of
peacock feathers swayed by a faceless, amber-skinned woman.
His gaze returned to the eyes, and again he searched for sound. Then
came a voice he recognized as his own.
"Who are you?"
"You may call me Kali. Others do. It's a name you would not understand.
But can you understand that love is surrender?" The words coiled about
his head, coruscating and empty of meaning. He shook them away and
watched as she brushed a strand of hair from his face. With that simple
motion, her nipples traced twin heliotrope arcs across the gossamer
screen of her blouse. He examined her in disbelief, unable to find
words.
"When my lover lies silent, I do as I choose."
Deftly she uncoiled the white silk sash from around her waist and in a
single practiced motion bound it over his eyes. The room vanished. In
the dream's sudden night he grew intensely aware of touch and smell.
Commands came in an alien tongue, and he felt his breast and thighs
brushed lightly by a new, pungent fragrance.
"We have cloaked you in petals of spikenard, to banish the sight of
your unshaven body. A _feringhi _knows so little of what pleases a
woman."
He felt a light brush across his parted lips, and then her eyelashes,
stiffened dark with antimony, trilled a path downward over his skin, to
his nipples. The hardened lashes stroked each nipple in turn with rapid
flutters, until the skin tightened almost to bursting. An excruciating
sensitivity burned through him, but still the lashes fluttered,
determinedly, almost unendurably, until his aroused tips touched the
aching portals of pain. Then he sensed a tongue circle each nipple in
turn, searching out the one most ripe.
He felt her kneel above him, surrounding him with open thighs that
clasped his chest. The room fell expectantly silent. Then, as an
unknown syllable sounded somewhere above him, he felt the nipple of his
right breast seized in the lock of a warm, moist grasp. The surrounding
thighs rocked gently at first, but slowly increased their rhythm in
time with the sound of breath. Suddenly he felt her body twist lightly
and another tip, hardened as that on his chest, began to trace the
nipple's swollen point. Her thighs were smooth and moist as she pressed
in with spiraling, ever more rapid intensity. He found himself deeply
conscious of her rhythms and the hard cadence of breath. He reached for
the strength to rip the silk from his eyes, to end the dream's
tantalizing dark. But strength was not there. Or time.
Before he could stir, he sensed the hardened tip shudder. Again a grasp
took his nipple and worked it with measured spasms, until the room's
austere silence was cut by her sharp intake of breath, timed to match a
single insistent contraction that seemed to envelope the whole of his
breast. He felt her seize his hands in her own, and although he could
see nothing, in his mind there grew a vision of her eyes at that
moment. Then there came a sound, partially stifled in her throat, but
not before it had found the gilded walls and returned, annealed to a
glassy relic of release.
He felt her slowly withdraw, but then her mouth took his breast, till
it had drawn away the musk. At last, perhaps to signify repletion, she
lightly brushed his lips with the tip of her tongue.
"You have pleased me." Her voice was quiet now, almost a whisper. "Now
we will please each other."
A hand worked at his loins, methodically applying a viscous, harshly
scented oil.
"Would you could see with my eyes. The _lingam _of the fabled Shiva was
never garlanded such as this, or anointed so lovingly."
Then her voice turned harsh as she spoke short staccato commands in an
unknown tongue. Bangles sounded and silk rustled as the room emptied.
Now he caught a new scent, the harsh smell he remembered from the box
the governor had offered.
"I will tell you my secret." She whispered close to his ear. "There is
no more exciting way to experience the ecstasy of love than with
_affion_, the essence of the poppy. But I have a way to receive it no
one else knows. It is like the burst of a lightning stroke. Its power
envelopes the senses."
He felt her smooth a thick paste along the sides of his phallus, and
sensed a tingle as she clasped it carefully with both hands. Again she
moved above him, but curiously there was no touch of her body. Only the
presence of her scent.
A tight ring seemed to circle his flesh, and he felt the weight of her
rounded buttocks slide down onto his thighs.
He startled upward in shock and disbelief. Never will I . . .
"You must lie still, my love. In your surrender, only I may have my
will."
She began at once to move above his thighs, and again muted sounds
struggled stillborn in her throat. With deliberate regularity her
rhythm mounted, while an overwhelming sensation spread upward through
his body. Slowly he felt his new _Resolve_ slipping from him.
The convulsions started in his lower thighs, as muscles tightened
involuntarily. And then the precipice grew near and he was at its edge
and he was falling. He felt the surge, as though drawn out by the twist
of her buttocks. Then again and again, each spasm matched by her own as
she worked to envelop him completely. He was scarcely aware of her
nails fixed in his breasts. At that instant he seemed to drift apart
from his body and observe mutely as it was consumed by its own
sensations. Until numbness washed over him, stilling his sense.
As he lay in exhaustion his mind sorted through her words, and in the
dream's darkness he vowed to take her again. The next time, it's you
who'll surrender, woman called Kali. To my will. And you'll find out
the meaning of surrender.
But his thoughts were lost among the gilded panels as she pulled the
silk from his eyes and quietly whispered something he did not
understand. In that instant he thought he saw where a tear had stained
a path across one cheek. She looked at him longingly, then touched his
lips with her own for a long moment before slipping quietly into the
dark.
The dream dissolved in sleep. And she was gone. . . .
Hawksworth was suddenly awake. The chill of early dawn penetrated his
face and hands, and his hair sparkled with light jewels of dew. His
leather couch was moist and glistening, while the pale sky above was
blocked by a tapestried canopy. Only in the east, above the white
railing of the rooftop, could he see the glitter of a waning Venus, her
brief reign soon to dissolve in the red wash of early sun. He looked
about his white brick enclosure and saw only a light wooden door
leading into a second-floor apartment.
He had no sooner drawn himself up to inhale the flower- scented dawn
than two smiling men were standing over him, bowing. Both wore turbans,
pastel-colored jackets, and a white wrap about their lower torso.
Squinting into their eyes, Hawksworth remembered them from the evening
before. They had brought the basin of water in which he had first
washed.
As he pulled the embroidered coverlet closer about him he noticed a
strange numbness in his body. And his mind ached as he tried to
remember what precisely had happened.
There was a game on horseback with the governor, and then a banquet,
with an argument in which Mukarrab Khan threatened to betray us to the
Portugals, a curious evening of music. And then dreams . . .
Pulling himself up off the couch, he started unsteadily across the hard
flat tile of the roof. Immediately a servant was beside him, producing
a heavy silk wrap and swathing it around his shoulders and waist. Then
the man bowed again and spoke in accented Turki.
"May Allah prosper you today, Sahib. May your fortunes answer the
prayers of the poor." The man's expression softened to match his own
compliment. "Should it please the Sahib, his morning bath is waiting."
Without thinking, without even hearing the words, he allowed himself to
be led through the doorway into the second-floor apartment. There, in
the center of the room, was his chest, its lock intact. He examined it
with a quick glance, then followed the servants down a set of stone
stairs to the ground-floor veranda--where a steaming marble tub waited.
Good Jesus, not again! How can I make them understand? Bathing weakens
a man.
He started to turn, but suddenly two eunuchs appeared out of nowhere
and were guiding him up the two marble steps to a stone platform, where
they seated him on a filigreed wooden stool. Silently the servants
stripped away his light wrap and began to knead his body and his hair
with a fragrant powder, a blend of wood bark and some astringent fruit.
The scent was mild, pleasant, and as their hands traveled over him he
felt the pores of his skin open to divulge their residual rankness.
This is better, he thought. Cleaning without water. With only some sort
of powder. I feel refreshed already.
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.
At least I'll be in fashion back home, he thought, if I ever get back.
Beards are passing from style.
But what's he doing now? By heaven, no . . .
The razor swept cleanly across Hawksworth's chest, leaving a swath of
soft skin in its wake. It came down again, barely missing a nipple as
he moved to rise.
"You must be still, Sahib. You will harm yourself."
"I told you I'll not have it." Hawksworth pushed the razor away.
"But it is our custom." The man seemed to plead. "Khan Sahib ordered
that you be groomed as an honored guest."
"Well, damn your customs. Enough."
There was a moment of silence. Then the turbaned man bowed, his face
despondent.
"As the Sahib desires."
He signaled the barber to rub a light coat of saffron-scented oil on
Hawksworth's face and then to begin trimming Hawksworth's hair with the
pair of silver scissors he had brought. The barber quickly snipped away
the growth of the voyage, leaving the hair moderately cropped, in the
Moghul fashion.
Hawksworth examined the mirror again.
Damn if I wouldn't make a proper Cheapside dandy. Right in style. And I
hate being in style.
Then the turbaned man produced a heavy lead comb and began to work it
repeatedly through Hawksworth's hair. Hawksworth watched the mirror in
confusion.
What's he doing? It's already been combed. And it's so short there's no
point anyway.
Then he noticed the slight traces of gray around the sides beginning to
darken, taking on the color of the lead.
"Please open your mouth." The turbaned man stood above him holding a
dark piece of wood, frayed at the end and crooked. "And I will scrape
your teeth with _nim_ root."
"But that's insane. Teeth are cleaned with a piece of cloth and a
toothpick. Or rubbed with a bit of sugar and salt ash . . ."
The man was scrubbing away at Hawksworth's mouth-- tongue, gums, teeth--
using a dentifrice that tasted like burnt almond shells. Next he
offered a mint-flavored mouth rinse to remove the debris.
The turbaned man then inspected Hawksworth critically from several
sides, finally venturing to speak.
"If I may suggest, a bit of _collyrium_, castor oil darkened with
lampblack, would render your eyes much more striking." Without waiting
for confirmation, he applied a few quick strokes to Hawksworth's
eyelids, much as an artist might touch up a canvas.
Then one of the eunuchs stepped forward and supplied a silver tray to
the turbaned servants. On it were folded garments: a tight-fitting pair
of blue trousers, a patterned shirt, and a knee-length coat of thin,
peach-colored muslin. They dressed Hawksworth quickly, and then secured
a patterned sash about his waist. Waiting on the floor were leather
slippers, low-quartered with a curved toe and a bent-down back.
"What have you done with my doublet and breeches? And my boots?"
"They are being cleaned today, Sahib. You may have them again when you
wish. But you may prefer to wear our garments while our guest." The
turbaned man bowed again, then he moved away and held a long mirror for
Hawksworth to examine himself.
"Have we pleased you, Sahib?"
Hawksworth scarcely recognized himself. He had been transformed from a
rank but honest seaman into a Moghul noble--youthful, smooth-skinned,
smelling of spice. The soreness was banished from his limbs, and even
his wound had all but disappeared. His hair was clean and completely
dark, and his skin glowed. And his new clothes were more elaborate than
anything he had ever worn.
"Now if you will please follow us to the garden. Khan Sahib has
suggested you begin your day with some _tari _wine."
Hawksworth followed the men through the shuttered doorway into the open
courtyard. The morning sun now illuminated the tops of a large grove of
palm trees that circled an open cistern. He quickly surveyed the
buildings, hoping to gain his bearings.
So I've been quartered in one of the side buildings, off the main
palace. But there are many, many rooms. Who's living here?
A group of servants stood waiting at the base of one of the palms. When
they saw Hawksworth, they mobilized to action. One young man among
them, wearing a white wrap around his lower torso, immediately secured
his belt and began to shimmy up the leaning palm. When he reached the
top he locked his legs around the trunk and carefully detached an
earthen pot that hung beneath an incision in the bark of the tree.
Balancing the pot in one hand, he stretched and nimbly pulled off a
number of leaves from the tree and then lowered himself carrying his
load. The moment his feet touched ground he raced toward the veranda
and delivered the pot and leaves to a waiting eunuch.
Hawksworth watched as the eunuchs first inspected the items and then
ordered them prepared. The leaves were washed thoroughly with water
from the cistern and then folded into natural cups. The liquor from the
pot was strained through muslin into a crystal decanter and the earthen
receptacle discarded. Then one of the turbaned servants poured a large
portion of the liquor from the decanter into a palm-leaf cup and
offered it to Hawksworth.
"It's _tari _wine, Sahib. One of the pleasures of early morning in
India." His matter-of-fact manner could not entirely hide his pride.
"Palm wine makes itself overnight. It does not last out the day. When
the sun shines the trees only give off vinegar."
Hawksworth gingerly sipped the newly fermented palm sap and was
pleasantly surprised by its light flavor, totally unlike ale, or even
Canary wine. After the third cup, the world around began to acquire a
light sparkle of its own, and he realized the sap was more potent than
it seemed.
"Not a bad way to start the day. What do you call it?"
"It comes from the _tari _palm, and some _topiwallahs _call it Toddy.'"
"Toddy, it's called? It's more than passable grog."
"Thank you, Sahib. Drink too much and you will spend the day with your
head in a buzz." The servant giggled. "So now perhaps you should eat."
He consulted briefly with the eunuchs, who nodded and signaled toward
the veranda. Moments later a tray appeared, piled high with honey-
covered breads and glass dishes of sweet curds. Some hard cheese also
had found its way onto the tray, and Hawksworth wondered if this was to
placate his European taste. He sipped more of the Toddy and munched the
bread and curds.
Then he saw the women.
There were five. They seemed clustered in a group as they entered the
courtyard, but then he realized it was an aristocratic lady surrounded
by four maids. They did not know he was there, for none covered her
face. As he watched them they seemed preoccupied in an increasingly
animated exchange. Then the aristocratic woman stepped determinedly
ahead, turned, and curtly gave instructions whose seriousness was
clear, even if her words were foreign. Her voice was not strident, but
its authority was unmistakable.
The other women paused, then slowly, one by one, they seemed to
acknowledge her orders and they bowed. The lady whirled and continued
on her way, while the other four women turned toward the direction they
had come. Then, as though the resolution of the argument had suddenly
made them aware of their surroundings, they all seemed to see
Hawksworth at once. All five women froze.
Hawksworth smiled and tried to remember the bow he had seen performed
to him so often. But he could not remove his eyes from the first woman,
who was more striking than any he had ever before seen. Her skin was
fair, with a warm hint of olive, and her high cheekbones stood in
stunning relief as they glanced away the golden light of dawn. Her nose
was thin and sculptured, while her lips would have been full, had they
not been drawn tight in response to some unspecified inner
determination. Yet her eyes seemed untouched by what had just
transpired. They were clear and receptive, even warm, and Hawksworth
asked himself at that moment if this bespoke innocence, or guile.
In dress and adornment she scarcely differed from her maids. All had
long black hair, brushed to gleaming and protected from the morning air
with a transparent gossamer scarf edged in gold embroidery. At first
glance there seemed little to distinguish among the tight strands of
pearls each wore at the neck, or the jeweled bands on their wrists and
upper arms. Each wore a tight silk halter for a blouse, and to
Hawksworth's assessing eyes the maids all seemed to have abundant
breasts swelling their halters to overflowing, some--perhaps all--with
breasts more generous than the lady herself. Then he noted in amazement
that the women actually wore a form of tapered silk trouser, a tight-
legged pajama similar to that worn by aristocratic men.
Unlike the male style, however, each woman's body was enveloped by a
long transparent skirt, suspended from a
band that circled her torso just beneath her breasts. And whereas men
all wore a long scarf tied about the waist of their cloaks and hanging
down the front, the women all had a long pleated panel tucked directly
into the front waistband of their trousers and reaching almost to the
ground. He could not help noticing that it clung sensually to their
thighs as they walked, while its gold-embroidered hem tinkled against
the gold bracelets each woman wore at her ankles. Their shoes were red
Turkish leather, with gold decorations sewn across the top and a
pointed toe that curved upward.
The only difference between the lady and her maids seemed to be in the
rich fabric of her lightly clinging trousers. Then, too, there was
slightly more gold thread in her long transparent skirt, and among the
pearls at her neck nestled an unmistakable blue sapphire as large as a
walnut.
But her primary distinction was not merely the classic lines of her
face or the perfect curve of her waist and thighs, but rather something
in her bearing, in her assured but unmannered carriage. Her real beauty
lay in her breeding.
All five women stared at Hawksworth in momentary surprise and shock.
Then each maid automatically seized her transparent scarf and pulled it
across her lower face. The woman also moved instinctively to do the
same, but then she seemed to consciously stop herself and with an
obvious attempt at restraint she walked on, barefaced, past the
courtyard and into the garden beyond. Alone.
Hawksworth watched her form disappear among the clipped hedges and
elaborate marble pavilions of the garden. He noticed a curious
sensation in his chest as she passed from view, and he suddenly found
himself wanting very much to follow her. When he finally turned and
looked back, the other women had already vanished.
Only then did he realize that all the servants had been watching him.
The one nearest nodded in the direction of the garden and smiled
knowingly.
"Perhaps it will not surprise you, Sahib, to learn that she was once
the favorite of the Moghul himself. And now she is in Surat. Amazing."
"But why's she here?" Hawksworth glanced back at the
garden once more to assure himself she was indeed lost to its recesses.
"She is Shirin, the first wife of Khan Sahib." He moved closer to
Hawksworth, so that his lowered voice would not reach the eunuchs. "She
was removed from the Moghul's _zenana _and married to Khan Sahib last
year by Queen Janahara, just before Her Majesty had him appointed the
governor of Surat. Some believe she appointed him here to remove Shirin
from Agra, because she feared her." The servant's voice became a
whisper. "We all know she has refused His Excellency the legal rights
of a husband."
The silence of the court was cut by the unmistakable voice of Mukarrab
Khan, sounding in anger as he gave some command from within the palace.
There followed a chorus of women's wails.
Hawksworth turned to the servant, but the man read his inquiring
glance.
"He has ordered the women whipped for disobeying his order to accompany
Shirin at all times, even when she walks in the garden."
Then the door opened again, and Mukarrab Khan strode into the morning
sunshine.
"Captain Hawksworth, _salaam_. I trust Allah gave you rest."
"I slept so well I find difficulty remembering all we said last night."
Hawksworth watched him carefully. Will he honor his threat to deliver
us to the Viceroy, for a trial at Goa?
"It was an amusing evening. Hardly a time for weighty diplomatic
exchange. And did you enjoy my little present?"
Hawksworth pondered his question for a moment, and the drugged dream of
the night before suddenly became real.
"You mean the woman? She was very . . . unusual, very different from
the women of England."
"Yes, I daresay. She was one of my final gifts from . . . Agra. I often
have her entertain my guests. If you like, you may keep her while you
stay with me. I already hear she fancies you. The serving women call
her Kali, after a goddess from their infidel pantheon. I think that
one's their deity of destruction."
"Why did they give her that name?"
"Perhaps she'll tell you herself sometime." Mukarrab Khan gestured for
a servant to bring his cloak. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I regret I
must abandon you for a time. Among my least pleasant duties is a
monthly journey to Cambay, our northern port in this province. It
always requires almost a week, but I have no choice. Their Shahbandar
would rob the Moghul's treasury itself if he were not watched. But I
think you'll enjoy yourself in my absence."
"I would enjoy it more if I could be with my men."
"And forgo the endless intrigues my Kali undoubtedly plans for you?" He
monitored Hawksworth's unsettled expression. "Or perhaps it's a boy
you'd prefer. Very well, if you wish you may even have . . ."
"I'm more interested in the safety of our merchants and seamen. And our
cargo. I haven't seen the men since yesterday, at the customs house."
"They're all quite well. I've lodged them with a port official who
speaks Portuguese, which your Chief Merchant also seems to understand.
I'm told, by the way, he's a thoroughly unpleasant specimen."
"When can I see them?"
"Why any time you choose. You have only to speak to one of the eunuchs.
But why trouble yourself today? Spend it here and rest. Perhaps enjoy
the grounds and the garden. Tomorrow is time enough to re-enter the
wearisome halls of commerce."
Hawksworth decided that the time had come to raise the critical
question. "And what about the Portugals? And their false charges?"
"I think that tiresome matter can be _Resolve_d with time. I've sent
notice to the court in Agra, officially, that you wish to travel there.
When the reply is received, matters can be settled. In the meantime, I
must insist you stay here in the palace. It's a matter of your
position. And frankly, your safety. The Portuguese do not always employ
upright means to achieve their ends." He tightened his traveling cloak.
"Don't worry yourself unduly. Just try to make the most of my humble
hospitality. The palace grounds are at your disposal. Perhaps you'll
find something in all this to engage your curiosity." Mukarrab Khan
brushed away a fly from his cloak. "There's the garden. And if you're
bored by that, then you might wish to examine the Persian observatory
constructed by my predecessor. You're a seaman and, I presume, a
navigator. Perhaps you can fathom how it all works. I've never been
able to make anything out of it. Ask the servants to show you. Or just
have some _tari_ wine on the veranda and enjoy the view."
He bowed with official decorum and was gone, his entourage of guards in
tow.
Hawksworth turned to see the servants waiting politely. The turbaned
man, whose high forehead and noble visage were even more striking now
in the direct sunshine, was dictating in a low voice to the others,
discreetly translating Mukarrab Khan's orders into Hindi, the language
that seemed common to all the servants.
"The palace and its grounds are at your disposal, Sahib." The servant
with the large white turban stood waiting. "Our pleasure is to serve
you."
"I'd like to be alone for a while. To think about . . . to enjoy the
beauty of the garden."
"Of course. Sahib. Perhaps I could have the honor of being your guide."
"I think I'd prefer to see it alone."
The servant's dismay was transparent, but he merely bowed and
immediately seemed to dissolve into the marble porticoes of the
veranda, as did all the others.
Hawksworth watched in amazement. They really do follow orders. Now if I
can start to figure out this place. I don't need guides. All I need are
my eyes. And luck.
The garden spread out before him. Unlike the closely clipped geometry
of the courtyard he had seen the night before, this was less formal and
more natural, with a long waterway receding into the horizon. The pond
was flanked by parallel arbors along each side, shading wide, paved
walkways. He noticed there were no flowers, the main focus in an
English garden, only gravel walks and the marble-tiled watercourse. The
sense was one of sublime control.
Several dark-skinned gardeners in loincloths were wading knee-deep in
the shallow reservoir, adjusting the flow from bubbling fountains that
spewed from its surface at geometrically regular spacings, while others
were intently pruning--in what seemed a superfluous, almost compulsive
act--the already immaculate hedges.
As Hawksworth walked past, self-consciously trying to absorb a sense of
place, the gardeners appraised him mutely with quick, flicking sweeps
of their eyes. But none made any move to acknowledge his presence.
The sun burned through the almost limitless sky, whose blue was
polished to a ceramic glaze, and the air was clean and perfumed with
nectar. The garden lay about him like a mosaic of naturalism perfected.
Through the conspicuous hand of man, nature had been coerced, or
charmed, to exquisite refinement.
The gravel pathway ended abruptly as he reached the pond's far shore,
terminated by a row of marble flagstones. Beyond lay geometrical arbors
of fruit-laden trees-- mangoes, apples, pears, lemons, and even oranges.
Hawksworth tightened his new robe about his waist and entered one of
the orchard's many pathways, marveling.
I've found the Garden of Eden.
The rows of trees spread out in perfect regularity, squared as
carefully as the columns of the palace verandas and organized by
species of fruit. As he explored the man-made forest, he began to find
its regularity satisfying and curiously calming. Then in the distance,
over the treetops, a high stone wall came into view, and from beyond
could be heard the splashes of men laboring in the moat. He realized he
had reached the farthest extent of the palace grounds.
As he neared the wall, the orchard gave way to an abandoned clearing in
whose center stood a moss-covered marble stairway projecting upward
into space, leading nowhere. The original polish on its steps was now
buried in layers of dust and overgrowth.
Was there once a villa here? But where's the . . . ?
Then he saw the rest. Curving upward on either side of the stairway was
a moss-covered band of marble over two feet wide and almost twenty feet
in length, concave, etched, and numbered.
It's some sort of sundial. But it's enormous.
He turned and realized he was standing next to yet another stone
instrument, a round plaque in red and white marble, like the dial of a
water clock, on which Persian symbols for the zodiac had been
inscribed. And beyond that was the remains of a circular building,
perforated with dozens of doorways, with a tall pillar in the middle.
Next to it was a shallow marble well, half a hemisphere sunk into the
ground, with precise gradations etched all across the bottom.
Hawksworth walked in among the marble instruments, his astonishment
growing. They were all etched to a precision he had never before seen
in stone.
This observatory is incredible. The sundial is obvious, even if the
purpose of the stairway over its center isn't. But what's the round
vertical plaque? Or that round building there, and the curious marble
well? Could those be some sort of Persian astrolabe, like navigators
use to estimate latitude by fixing the elevation of the sun or stars?
What are they all for? Some to fix stars? Others to predict eclipses?
But there has to be more. These are for observation. Which means there
have to be charts. Or computations? Or something.
It's said the Persians once mastered a level of mathematics and
astronomy far beyond anything known in Europe. Is this some forgotten
outpost of that time? Just waiting to be rediscovered?
He turned and examined the instruments again, finding himself wondering
for an instant if they could somehow be hoisted aboard the _Discovery_
and returned to England.
And if the observatory's still here, perhaps the charts are here
somewhere too.
His excitement mounted as he searched the rest of the clearing. Then he
saw what he wanted.
It has to be there.
Abutting the stone wall was a small hut of rough-hewn stone, with
slatted windows and a weathered wooden door that was wedged ajar, its
base permanently encrusted in the dried mud of the rainy season. The
wall behind was so weathered that the metal spikes along its top had
actually rusted away.
This whole place must have been deserted for years. What a waste.
As he approached the weathered stone hut, he tried to dampen his own
hopes.
How can there be anything left? Who knows how long it's been abandoned?
And even if there are calculations--or maybe even books!--they're most
likely written in Persian. Or Arabic.
He took hold of the rotting door, which left a layer of decaying wood
on his hand, and wrenched it open wider, kicking a path for its base
through the crusted mud. Then he slipped sideways through the opening.
A stifled, startled cry cut the dense air of the hut, and an oil lamp
glowing in the black was smothered in a single movement. Then came a
woman's voice.
"You're not allowed here. Servants are forbidden beyond the orchard."
She had begun in Persian, then repeated herself in Hindi.
"Who are you?" Hawksworth, startled by the unknown languages, began in
English and then switched to Turkish. "I thought . . ."
"The English _feringhi_." The voice suddenly found control, and its
Turki was flawless. "You were in the courtyard this morning." She
advanced slowly toward the shaft of light from the doorway. "What are
you doing here? Khan Sahib could have you killed if the eunuchs
discover you."
He watched as her face emerged from the shadows. Then his heart
skipped.
It was Shirin.
"The govern . . . Khan Sahib told me about this observatory. He said I
. . ."
"Stars do not shine in the day, nor the sun in this room. What are you
doing in here?"
"I thought there might be charts, or a library." Hawksworth heard his
own voice echo against the raw stone walls of the room. He studied her
face in the half light, realizing with a shock that she was even more
striking now than in the sunshine of the garden.
"Did he also tell you to plunder all you find in the palace grounds?"
"He said I might find the observatory curious, as a navigator. He was
right. But there must be some charts. I thought this room might . . ."
"There are some old papers here. Perhaps he thought this place would
keep you occupied. Or test you one more time."
"What do you mean?"
She answered with a hard laugh, then circled Hawksworth and examined
him in the glancing morning light. Her dark hair was backlighted now
from the sun streaming through the doorway, her gauze head scarf
glistening like spun gold.
"Yes, you're a _feringhi_. Just like all the rest." Her eyes flashed.
"How many more like you are there in Europe? Enough, I would guess, to
amuse our debauched governor forever."
"I didn't double the Cape for his amusement. Or yours." What's the
matter? Everybody talks in riddles. "Does this room have a library?"
"Yes, but the writings are in Persian. Which you don't understand."
"How do you know what I understand?"
She looked at him with open astonishment. "Do you suppose there's
anyone in the palace who doesn't already know all about you?"
"And what do you know about me?"
Silence held the room for a moment. Then she spoke.
"I know you're a _feringhi_. Like the Portuguese. Here for gold. And .
. . the rest." She turned and walked back into the darkness. There was
a spark of light and the lamp glowed again. "As for this room, there's
nothing here you would understand. And when you return to the palace,
and to His Excellency's _affion _and his _nautch _girls, remember what
happens to a man who is discovered with another's wife. I will forget I
saw you here. You should forget also, if you wish to see the sun
tomorrow."
Hawksworth found himself watching her spellbound, almost not hearing
her words. He stood motionless for a moment, then walked directly
toward her, trying not to feel self-conscious in his new Moghul
clothes. "I want to talk with you. To find out what's going on. I'll
begin with this place. It's an observatory, or was. What harm can there
be in looking around this room?"
She stared at him without moving. "You certainly have a _feringhi'_s
manner. If you won't leave, then I'll ask you some questions. What do
you say is your reason for coming to India? It's rumored you're here
for the English king."
"What else have you heard?"
"Other things as well." She moved closer and her perfume enveloped him.
Her eyes were intense, almost overwhelming the jewel at her throat.
"But I'd like to hear them from you. There's much dismay about you,
about the battle, about the letter."
Hawksworth studied her wistfully. "You know about the letter?"
"Of course. Everyone knows." She sighed at his naivete. "The contents
of your chest were examined very carefully last night . . . but no one
dared touch the seal on the letter, for fear of the Moghul. Is it true
the English king may send an armada to attack Goa?"
"And if it were?"
"It could make a great deal of difference. To many people here."
"Who?"
"People who matter."
"The only one who should matter is the Moghul."
She laughed again. "He's the very last one who matters. I see you
comprehend very little." She paused and examined him closely. "But
you're an interesting man. We all listened to you play the English
sitar last night. And today the first place you chose to come was here.
You're the first _feringhi_ ever to seek out this place, which was once
famous throughout India. Did you truly come here this morning just to
learn?"
"I haven't learned very much so far. At least in this room."
He looked about them, noticing for the first time a small table on
which there was a book and fresh writings. "You've not told what you're
doing here. Or why you can come here when the servants are forbidden."
"Servants once tried to steal some of the marble steps for a
house. But the reason I come here is not really your concern, Captain
Hawksworth. . . ." She caught his startled look and laughed. "Of course
I know your name. I also know you should learn not to drink _bhang_
with Kali. She's more than your equal."
Hawksworth stifled his embarrassment and tried to ignore the barb.
"There surely must be charts here. What harm if I merely look around?"
Shirin stiffened. "Not now. Not today. You have to leave."
"But are there calculations, or charts?"
"More than likely. But I told you they're in Persian."
"Then maybe you could translate."
"I could. But not today. I've told you, you have to leave.
Really you must." She pushed the door open wider and stood waiting.
"I'll be back." He paused in the doorway and turned. "Will you
be here tomorrow?"
"Possibly."
"Then I'll be back for sure."
She looked at him and shook her head resignedly. "You truly
don't realize how dangerous it is for you to come here."
"Are you afraid?"
"I'm always afraid. You should be too." She studied him in the
sunshine, examining his eyes, and for a moment her face softened
slightly. "But if you do come, will you bring your English sitar? I'd
like very much to hear it once more."
"And what will you do for me in return?"
She laughed. "I'll try to excavate some musty Persian books here
that might tell you something about the observatory. But remember. No
one must ever know. Now, please." She urged him out, then reached and
pulled the door tightly closed.
Hawksworth suddenly realized the heat had grown intense, and now the
sun cut a sharp line down the face of the red marble dial, telling that
midmorning approached. He examined the dial quickly and then turned to
look again at the stone hut.
With the door closed, the ramshackle hut again looked completely
deserted.
What in Christ's name can she be doing? No matter, she's astonishing.
And there's something in the way she handles herself. Little wonder she
was the favorite concubine, or whatever they call it, of the Moghul.
And it's easy to see why his queen married her off to Mukarrab Khan and
sent them both here to get her out of the way. A clever way to banish .
. .
Hawksworth froze.
That's the word the pilot Karim used! From the Quran. "As for women
from whom you fear rebellion, banish them to . . . beds apart."
Could this be the woman he meant? But what rebellion? Whatever's going
on, nobody's talking. All I see are armed guards. And fear. This palace
is like a jewel-set dagger-exquisite, and deadly.
He stared again at the moss-covered marble instruments.
But I'll be back. If she'll be here, absolutely nothing could stop me.
CHAPTER NINE
The two _chitahs _tensed at the same instant and pulled taut the
chains on their jewel-studded collars. They were tawny, dark-spotted
Indian hunting leopards, and they rode in carpeted litters, one on each
side of the elephant's back. Each wore a brocade saddlecloth signifying
its rank, and now both began to flick the black-and-white striped tips
of their tails in anticipation.
Prince Jadar caught their motion and reined in his dun stallion; the
bright morning sunshine glanced off his freshly oiled olive skin and
highlighted the crevices of his lean angular face and his tightly
trimmed short beard. He wore a forest-green hunting turban, secured
with a heavy strand of pearls, and a dark green jacket emblazoned with
his own royal crest. His fifty-man Rajput guard had drawn alongside,
and their horses tossed their heads and pawed impatiently, rattling the
arrows in the brocade quivers by each man's saddle.
Then Jadar spotted the _nilgai_, large bovine Indian deer, grazing in a
herd upwind near the base of a low-lying hill. With a flick of his hand
he signaled the keepers who rode alongside the to begin removing the
leopards' saddlecloths. He watched as first the male and then the
female shook themselves and stretched their paws in readiness.
"Fifty rupees the male will make the first kill." Jadar spoke quietly
to Vasant Rao, the moustachioed young Rajput captain who rode
alongside. The commander of the prince's personal guards, he was the
only man in India Jadar trusted fully.
"Then give me two hundred on the female, Highness."
"A hundred. And half the hides for your regiment's shield maker." Jadar
turned toward the waiting keepers. "Release the female. Then count to a
hundred and release the male."
In moments the _chitahs _were bulleting toward the unsuspecting deer,
darting from bush to bush, occasionally kicking up dust with their
forefeet and hind legs to create camouflage. Then, as they approached
the final clearing, they suddenly parted--the female to the north, the
male to the south. Seconds later, as though on some private signal, the
female sprang. She seemed to cover the remaining twenty yards in less
than a second, and before the _nilgai _realized she was there, she had
already pawed down a bleating straggler.
The striped ears of the other _nilgai _shot erect at the sound, and the
herd panicked, sweeping blindly away from her--and directly toward the
cover where the male crouched. He waited coolly, and then, as the deer
darted by, pounced.
What followed was a fearsome devastation, as he brought down
one after another of the confused prey with his powerful claws.
"The female killed first, Highness. I assume our bet was in gold coins,
not silver." Vasant Rao laughed lightly and turned to study the
brooding man at his side. Can it be true what many suspect about the
prince? he again found himself wondering. That he choses his strategy
for a campaign from the final hunt of his _chitahs_!
But what strategy is left for us? The Deccanis have already reclaimed
the city of Ahmadnagar, deep in their territory, and once again made it
their rebel capital. They drove the Moghul garrison north to the fort
at Burhanpur, and now they threaten that city as well, the most
important station in the vital route between Agra and Surat. We haven't
the men and horse to turn them back. Not this time.
This was Prince Jadar's second campaign in the Deccan, India's revolt-
torn central plains, which lay far south of Agra and east of the port
of Surat, and the second time he had led his army to regain cities lost
to Malik Ambar, the Abyssinian adventurer and military genius who
periodically rose to lead the Deccan against Moghul rule. The Deccan
had never been secure, even under the Moghurs father, Akman, but under
Arangbar it had become a burial ground of reputation. One of the
Moghurs finest generals, whose dispatches from Ahmadnagar, only the
previous year, had boasted that the Deccan was finally subdued, now
cowered in the fortress at Burhanpur. Arangbar had no choice but to
send Jadar again.
"Did you see how they planned their attack?" Jadar fingered the edges
of his short beard, then pointed. "She drove them toward his trap. By
attacking the weak, she frightened the strong, who flew to their doom."
"We're not facing _nilgai_, Highness." Vasant Rao shifted in his saddle
to face the prince and shielded his eyes against the sun. "And our
position is much worse than on the last campaign. This time we have
only eighteen thousand men, all encamped here at Ujjain, all weary to
their bones from our siege at the Kangra, north in the Punjab, and then
the long march down country. While Malik Ambar waits rested and secure
in Ahmadnagar, his own capital, a two months' march south."
"We'll bring Ambar to terms just as before, three years ago. By fear."
Jadar watched as the keepers began measuring the rations of meat to
reward the _chitahs_. And he reflected over the secret envoy received
early that morning from the commander of the fortress at Mandu, the
northern outpost of the Deccan. . . .
"Your Highness is respectfully advised the situation is worse, much
worse, than told in the reports sent by Ghulam Adl." They were alone in
Jadar's tent and the envoy was on his knees, prostrate, terrified at
his obligation to bring ill tidings to the son of the Moghul. Ghulam
Adl was the general in charge of the Deccan, who had abandoned
Ahmadnagar to Malik Ambar and retreated north to Burhanpur. His
official reports still maintained an air of bravado, claiming a few
reinforcements were all that was required to drive the rebels to final
extinction.
"We have asked Ghulam Adl for troops to help defend Mandu, but he
cannot leave Burhanpur," the envoy continued. "The Deccanis have
surrounded the city, but they do not trouble themselves with a siege.
They know he cannot move. So they have sent eight thousand light
cavalry, Maratha irregulars, north across the Narbada River to plunder
outlying districts. They are approaching Mandu, and will be at the
fortress within the week."
"Why doesn't Ghulam Adl call up troops from among the _mansabdars_.
They've all been granted their annual allowance for maintenance of
cavalry."
_Mansabdars _were nobles of the Moghul empire who had been given rank
by the Moghul and were allowed to collect revenue from a specified
number of estates and villages, allotted lands called _jagirs_, as a
reward for service and loyalty. They collected taxes for the Imperial
treasury in Agra, which allowed them a portion to maintain cavalry and
equipage at the ready. Assignment of a _jagir _always carried the
responsibility of maintaining a specified number of troops and cavalry,
which they were obliged to muster when requested by the Moghul.
"The _mansabdars_ have no men to muster, may it please Your Highness."
The envoy's face was buried in the carpet, showing to Jadar only the
dust-covered back of his turban. "Conditions have been severe over the
past year. Crops have been bad, and many _mansabdars _could not collect
taxes because of the Deccani raids. Many have not paid their cavalry
for over a year. The _mansabdars _still feed the horses that have been
branded and placed in their care. But they have not fed the men who
must ride. Most of those have returned to their villages. There can be
no army without coin to lure them back. The _mansabdars _are fearful of
Malik Ambar now, and many have secretly agreed with him not to muster
even the troops they still have."
"How many Deccani troops are encamped around Burhanpur?"
"Our spies report as many as eighty thousand, Highness. Ghulam Adl
dares not leave the fort in the center of the city. He has no more than
five thousand men still remaining loyal, and his supplies are short."
Jadar had ordered immediate solitary confinement for the envoy, lest
the news reach the camp. Now, watching his _chitahs _feed, he
calculated his next move.
I have to requisition silver coin from the treasury at Agra, and hope a
supply caravan can still get through. In the meantime I'll muster the
remaining cavalry from the _mansabdars_, on the threat their _jagirs_
will be confiscated if they fail to deliver. It won't raise many men,
but it will slow defections.
But if we're to recall the men still loyal, we must have silver. To
raise the thirty thousand men we need, men who've not been paid for a
year, will require at least five million rupees, fifty _lakhs_. I must
have it by the time we reach Burhanpur. If we can hold that city, we
can raise the army from there.
"Malik Ambar sued for peace three years ago because his alliance came
apart." Vasant Rao spoke again, watching Jadar carefully, knowing that
the prince was deeply troubled, had imprisoned a courier that very
morning for which there could only be one reason--then released pigeons
that flew north.
"And his alliance will come apart again. If we sow enough fear." Jadar
seemed annoyed at the delay as the waiting _chitahs _were re-harnessed
and the last carcasses of blue _nilgai _were loaded onto the ox-drawn
wagons for return to the camp. "You still haven't learned to think like
a _chitah_."
Jadar signaled the hunt was finished and wheeled his horse back toward
the camp. Vasant Rao rode a few paces behind, asking himself how long
that regal head would remain on those royal shoulders.
You're threatened now on every side. You cannot be as oblivious as you
seem.
He thought back over Prince Jadar's career. Of the Moghul's four sons,
Prince Jadar was the obvious one to succeed. Jadar's elder brother
Khusrav had been blinded by the Moghul years before for attempting a
palace revolt. Jadar's brother Parwaz, also older than the prince, was
a notorious drunkard and unacceptably dissolute, even by the lax
standards of the Moghul's court. And Jadar's younger brother, Allaudin,
was the handsome but witless son of a concubine, who well deserved his
secret nickname, Nashu-dani, "the good-for-nothing." Since there was no
law in India that the oldest must automatically succeed, power devolved
to the fittest. Only Jadar, son of a royal Rajput mother, could lead an
army, or rule India. Among the Moghul's four sons, he was the obvious,
deserving heir.
But ability alone was never enough to ensure success in the mire of
palace intrigue. One must also have a powerful friend.
For years Prince Jadar had the most powerful friend of all.
The grooming of Jadar for office had begun over five years earlier,
when he was taken under the protection of Queen Janahara. She had made
herself the guardian of Jadar's interests at court; and two years ago
she had induced the Moghul to elevate Jadar's _mansab_, his honorary
rank, to twelve thousand _zat_. In income and prestige he had soared
far beyond his brothers.
As is always the case, Jadar was expected to repay his obligation. On
the day he ascended to the throne and assumed power from the ailing,
opium-sotted Arangbar, he was expected to share that power with Queen
Janahara.
But their unofficial alliance had begun to go wrong. Very wrong. And
what had gone wrong was the most obvious problem of all. Jadar had
lived half his life in army camps, fighting the Moghul's wars because
he was the only son who could fight them, and he no longer saw any
reason to relinquish his battle-earned inheritance to the queen.
What will the queen do? Vasant Rao asked himself again. I know she has
turned on the prince. I know she tried to marry her Persian daughter to
Jadar's blinded brother Khusrav, but Jadar discovered this and demanded
Khusrav be sent out of Agra, to be kept in confinement by a raja loyal
to the prince. But the queen is still in Agra, and sooner or later she
will produce another successor, a creature she can dominate. Her task
will be easy if Jadar fails in this campaign.
"I have reports Maratha irregulars may be at the fort at Mandu within a
week." Jadar broke the silence between them as they rode. The noisy
Rajput horsemen rode discreetly well behind, cursing, laughing,
wagering. The flawless blue sky seemed to cloud as Jadar spoke. "Tell
me what you would do?"
"Strike camp and march south. We have no choice."
"Sometimes you Rajputs show less wit than your monkey god, Hanumanji."
Jadar laughed good-naturedly. "You learned nothing from the hunt today.
Don't you see that would merely scatter them? They'll never dare meet
us if we march in force. They'll only stage small raids. Harass our
baggage train. No, we must do just the opposite." Jadar reined in his
horse, turned to Vasant Rao, and lowered his voice. "Think like a
_chitah _for once, not like an impulsive Rajput. We'll send a small
cavalry force only--five hundred horse, you will help me pick them--who
will disperse, ride separately, never show their numbers. Like a
_chitah _stalks. No supply contingent. No elephants. No wagons. And,
after the Marathas have set their siege at Mandu, our cavalry will
quietly group and attack their flank. As they fall back, which they
always do when facing a disciplined unit, the cavalry in the fort will
ride out in force, forming the second arm of a pincer. And that will be
the last we see of Malik Ambar's famous Maratha irregulars. They'll
return to pillaging baggage trains and helpless villages."
"And after that?"
"We'll march directly on Burhanpur. We should reach it in less than a
month."
"The Marathas will begin to harass our supply trains as soon as we
cross the Narbada River. If they don't attack us while we cross."
"After Mandu, that's the one thing they will not do. Remember the
_chitahs_. The Marathas will never know where our Mandu cavalry may be
waiting in ambush."
"And when we reach Burhanpur?"
"We'll make our camp there, and muster cavalry from all the
_mansabdars_." Jadar passed over how he intended to do this. "That will
be the end of Ambar's many alliances. We'll have the men we need to
march in force on the south, on to Ahmadnagar, within the week. And
Malik Ambar will sue for peace and return the territory he's seized,
just like before."
Vasant Rao nodded in silent acknowledgment, asking himself what the
prince was withholding. The strategy was far too straightforward for
Jadar.
The camp was coming into view now. A vast movable city, it was easily
several miles in circuit. Even from afar, however, Jadar's massive
central tent dominated. It was bright red and stationed in the center
of the _gulal bar_, a restricted central zone almost two hundred yards
on the side that formed the focal point of the camp. Behind Jadar's
tent, separated by a figured satin partition, were the red chintz tents
of the women, where his first wife, Mumtaz, and her attendants stayed.
Directly in front of Jadar's tent was a canopied platform with four
massive corner pillars, called the _sarachah_, where Jadar held private
briefings.
The entire _gulal_ _bar _was sealed from common view by a
high cloth wall. Near the entrance to Jadar's enclosure was the camp
artillery, including the cannon, and the tents of the lead horses and
war elephants. Its entry was guarded by mounted horsemen, and next to
these were the tents for Jadar's leopards. Around the perimeter were
the striped tents of the nobles and officers, whose respective colors
flew above for easy identification. And spreading out from each
officer's tent were the tents of his men, their wives, and their
bazaar. The camp itself was laid out with such consistent precision
that a soldier might easily find his tent in total darkness, regardless
of where the army might be.
As Jadar dismounted at the entry to the gulal bar and strode toward his
tent, his mind sorted through the moves that lay ahead. He had notified
the Moghul of the envoy's secret report and asked for five million
rupees in silver coin. It was the price for the Deccan. Surely he could
not refuse. Arangbar's own administrators, who were supposed to monitor
the mansabdars, were to blame.
There were also other, new and disquieting, complexities. Word had come
through Surat only the day before that the Portuguese were secretly
planning to arm Malik Ambar. Why? It was common knowledge they feared
and hated Jadar, because he distrusted all Christians and said so. And
they certainly were aware that if he should someday unite the rebel-
infested province of Gujarat, where their ports of Daimon and Diu were
situated, he would undoubtedly try to regain these ports for India. But
they would not dare to openly, or even secretly, support rebels within
the Moghul empire unless they were sure there would be no reprisals
from Agra. Which meant they had powerful accomplices in court.
Accomplices who would venture to endanger the empire itself to ruin
Jadar.
Whose interests in Agra were served if the Deccan remained in turmoil?
If Jadar were kept occupied and harried in the south?
The question virtually answered itself.
If this were not perplexing enough, news had arrived two days before
telling of an incredible incident. Two merchant frigates of another
European nation, calling themselves English, had appeared off the bar
of Surat. And humiliated four Portuguese warships. Jadar had released
pigeons for Surat immediately, ordering that the English be protected
until he could determine their intentions.
The dispatch received the following morning, yesterday, reported that
his orders had been timely. A Portuguese ambush of the English as they
came up the Tapti River had been averted, by Rajputs using arrows
stolen from the governor's own guard. And this morning there had been
another message from Surat, with news that the governor had sent the
Moghul a dispatch claiming credit for the action--this only after he
discovered the English captain had gifts for Arangbar!
But who knew the intentions of the captain of this English fleet? Or
the content of a letter he had brought for the Moghul. Reports said
only that he was "quartered" in the governor's palace. Where he could
no longer be protected. . . .
His eunuchs bowed and relayed an urgent message from Mumtaz. His wife
begged to receive His Highness the moment he returned.
Without entering his own tent, Jadar proceeded through the circle of
guards protecting the women's quarters. Mumtaz was waiting, surrounded
by two of her women and the now-constant midwife. She was almost to
term with Jadar's third child. The first two had been daughters. His
first thought when he saw her was that this birth must be male.
Merciful Allah, make this a son.
Mumtaz's gleaming black hair had been tightly braided, and she wore a
shawl and trousers of gold-threaded silk. She had a pronounced fondness
for gold and silk: few other luxuries were to be found in the army
camps that had been her home for most of their marriage. Mumtaz's
features were delicate, with high Persian cheeks, and she was well over
thirty--the age at which most Muslim women ceased to interest their
mates. But she had found ways to remain the center of Jadar's life, if
not dominate it.
The flash of her eyes told Jadar she was in an extreme temper.
"Pigeons arrived just after you left. The report from Agra
is astonishing."
"What 'report' do you mean? Do you and your women receive my dispatches
now?"
"Which are rarely worth the bother. No, I receive my own. From Father."
Mumtaz was the daughter of Nadir Sharif, prime minister of the Moghul
empire and brother of Queen Janahara. "I had the sense to leave him
pigeons for here at Ujjain. And also for Burhanpur . . . which may
prove to be vital for you, assuming that city is not overrun by
Deccanis by the time you reach it."
"What message did Nadir Sharif ever send that wasn't dictated by our
noble queen?"
"You're a fool not to trust him. But you'd do well to begin. And soon."
Mumtaz's eyes snapped momentary fire, matching the hard red jewel on
her forehead, and she eased herself slowly onto a well-traveled velvet
bolster to lighten the weight of the child. "I think you'll discover
your many friends may be difficult to find if we ever return to the
capital."
"Come to the point. I want to see into their tent. They killed well
today." Jadar was always amused by Mumtaz's temper. He had long ago
despaired of receiving proper respect from her. She defied him exactly
the way Janahara defied the Moghul. And he delighted in it. Perhaps all
Persian wives were incorrigible. Perhaps it was a racial trait.
"Very well. You should be pleased to know that His Majesty has already
forgotten you exist. He has agreed to the queen's outrageous scheme. An
affront to sense, but it will be the end of you nonetheless."
"Agreed to what?"
"The very marriage I warned you about, but you wouldn't listen. You
were too clever. Yes, you were brilliant. You sent the wrong brother
away from Agra. You sent Khusrav, the competent one. You should have
sent Allaudin."
"I don't believe it."
"I do. And I told you it would happen. The queen has foisted her
scrawny offspring, the simpering Princess Layla, onto Allaudin. But
it's the perfect match. The Moghul's youngest son, the notorious 'good-
for-nothing,' betrothed to that fumbling little sparrow. Both weak and
useless."
"What could Allaudin possibly do? Even Arangbar realizes he's
incompetent."
"But Arangbar will soon be dead. So what he knows won't matter. It's
perfect for the queen. She'll rule them both. In the meantime, she'll
make sure you're nowhere near Agra. Your next appointment will probably
be the Punjab, or perhaps the Himalayas. Where you can chase yak with
your leopards." Mumtaz could scarcely contain her anger and
frustration. "The time will come, and soon, when the Moghul will chance
his twenty glasses of wine and his twelve grains of opium one night too
many. And the next day, while you're somewhere sporting with your
_chitahs_, she'll summon her lackey general Inayat Latif and his Bengal
_mansabdars _to Agra. And declare Allaudin the next Moghul."
Jadar was stunned. Allaudin was incapable of anything, except bowing to
the queen's orders like a hand puppet. Once Moghul, he certainly could
not rule. She would rule for him. Or probably eliminate him entirely
after a few months.
So Janahara had finally made her move. To challenge Prince Jadar, the
son who had earned the throne, for his rightful place. The battle had
been joined.
"So what do you propose to do? She waited just long enough to trap you
in the Deccan." Mumtaz's fury was turning to despair. "If you go back
now, you'll be accused of abandoning Burhanpur. If you march on south,
you'll be unable to return for months. And by that time Allaudin will
be married. Father said she has convinced the Moghul to give him a
personal mansab rank of eight thousand _zat _and a horse rank of four
thousand _suwar_. Allaudin, who scarcely knows a bow from a wine bowl,
will now have his own cavalry."
Jadar was looking at her, but he no longer heard.
This changes everything. There'll be no silver. The queen will see to
that.
And no silver means no troops can be recalled from the Deccan
_mansabdars_.
Which means we lose the Deccan. But she'd gladly give the
Deccan to destroy me.
Jadar looked at Mumtaz and smiled. "Yes, I must do something. But right
now I'll see my _chitahs _fed." And he turned and strode briskly back
toward his tent.
A dense mantle of evening smoke enveloped the camp as the three
generals passed through the entry of the gulal bar. They advanced to
the front of the sarachah platform and halted to wait for Jadar. Each
had brought a silver cup, as Jadar had instructed.
All three were seasoned military leaders. Abdullah Khan, a young Moghul
warrior, had been promoted to a rank of three thousand _suwar _after
the successful siege at the northern fortress of Kangra. Under the
prince he had risen from the rank of foot soldier to cavalry, and now
he commanded his own division. The next was Abul Hasan, a cool-headed
Afghan strategist with rank of five thousand _suwar_, who had led
Prince Jadar to his first victory in the Deccan three years before.
Finally there was Raja Vikrama-jit, a bearded Rajput of royal blood,
who led the Hindus. He scorned matchlocks and fought only with his
sword, and he was the bravest man in battle that Jadar had ever known.
Moments later Prince Jadar emerged through the smoke, carrying his
heavy sword and accompanied by Vasant Rao. A servant trailed after them
bearing a crystal decanter of wine and two silver goblets on a tray.
The prince assumed his seat in the center of the platform and ordered
the servant to place the decanter on a small table by his side. Then he
motioned away the servant and all the surrounding guards.
"I propose we all take a glass of wine to clear our thoughts. It's
Persian, and I had it cooled in the saltpeter tent especially for this
evening."
Jadar personally poured wine for each of the men, then filled the two
goblets on the tray for Vasant Rao and for himself.
"I hereby propose a toast to Ahmadnagar, which Malik Ambar now calls
his own capital. And to its recapture within a hundred days."
The men raised their goblets and drank in silence. Skepticism filled
their eyes.
Jadar looked at them and smiled. "You do not agree? Then let me tell
you more. The situation is very bad. How bad even you do not yet know.
But battles are more than a matter of numbers. They are a test of the
will to win. That's why I called you here tonight." Jadar paused. "But
first, is the wine to your liking?"
The men nodded silent assent.
"Good. Drink deeply, for none of us will drink again until we drink in
Ahmadnagar. Now I will take your cups."
Jadar reached for each man's cup individually and placed them in a row
alongside the tray, together with his own and that of Vasant Rao. Then
he laid his own cup on its side on the tray and slowly drew his heavy
sword from its scabbard. With a fierce swing he sliced the cup in half.
Then the next cup, and the next, until all were destroyed. The men
watched him spellbound.
"Assemble your ranks in the bazaar at midnight. In full battle dress. I
will address them. And at dawn, we march."
Jadar rose and as quickly as he had come disappeared into the darkness.
Battle gear--helmets, buckles, pikes, swords, muskets-- glistened in the
torchlight as Jadar rode a fully armored war elephant slowly down the
center of the main bazaar. The bristling infantry, arrayed in rows on
either side, watched him expectantly. A midnight muster was unheard of.
But rumors had already swept the camp telling of the pending marriage
of the queen's daughter to Allaudin. All knew Jadar had been betrayed.
And with him, all of them as well.
Then they noticed carts following him, with barrels of wine from
Jadar's tent. When the prince reached the center of the bazaar, he
raised his arms for silence.
For a moment all that could be heard was the neigh of horses from the
stables, and the cries of infants in the far reaches of the camp.
He began in Urdu, a hybrid camp tongue of Persian and
Hindi, his voice ringing toward Abul Hassan's Muslim troops.
"Tonight we are many." Jadar paused deliberately. "But in battle the
many are nothing. In battle there is only the one. Each of you is that
one." Again a pause. Then he shouted in a voice that carried to the far
hills. "Is there a Believer among us tonight who would fight to the
death for our victory?"
A roar of assent sounded from the men.
"Will you swear it? On the Holy Quran?"
This time the roar shook the tent poles of the bazaar.
"Is there one who would not?"
Silence.
Suddenly Jadar turned to the troops of Moghul lineage and
switched his language to exquisite Persian.
"Some here tonight swear to embrace death itself for our
victory. But I know not the will of all. Is there among you a man who
would give his life for us?"
Again a roar of assent.
"What man will swear it?"
The roar seemed to envelop the camp.
Without pausing, Jadar turned to the Rajput contingent,
addressing them easily in their native Rajasthani.
"Does any among you know how to fight?"
Cheers.
"Does any know how to die?"
More cheers. And then the Rajputs began banging their swords
on their bucklers. Jadar bellowed above the sudden dim.
"I know Hindus cannot take an oath. But if you could, would it
be to fight to the death for our victory?"
Bedlam seized the camp. And the chant "Jadar-o-Akbar," Jadar
is Great, swept through the ranks. Jadar let the chant continue for a
time, and as he listened, he saw that Mumtaz and her women had appeared
at the gateway of the gulal bar, as he had instructed them. All
activity had ceased in the camp, and even in the far background the
women had gathered in the shadows of the tents, listening intently.
Then Jadar motioned for silence and continued.
"Tonight we each will make a pledge. I to you. You to me. First my
pledge to you."
Jadar commanded his elephant to kneel, and he dismounted and walked
directly to the waiting wagons containing his wine barrels. He was
handed a silver-handled battle axe, and with a powerful overhand swing
he shattered the first barrel. Then he signaled his waiting guard, and
in moments every barrel had been axed. The center of the bazaar ran
red, and the air was filled with the wine's sweet Persian perfume.
Then he motioned toward the entry of the _gulal bar _and his women
emerged, followed by an elephant whose _howdah_, the livery on its
back, was filled with silver utensils. When the procession reached the
clearing where Jadar stood, the elephant's mahout commanded it to
kneel.
Without a word Jadar walked directly to the _howdah_. As though meeting
an enemy in ambush, he suddenly drew his long sword and swung it
through the livery, leaving a wide gash in its embroidered side. A
glittering array of silver and gold plate, goblets, jewelry poured onto
the ground. With a single motion he sheathed the sword and again took
the axe.
While the assembled camp watched spellbound, he quickly, methodically,
smashed each of the silver and gold objects into small shreds. Then he
broke the silver handle of the axe and again mounted the elephant.
"My pledge to you." His voice pierced the stunned silence of the camp
as he repeated each sentence in three languages. "My pledge to you is
not to touch wine, not to lie with women, not to look on silver or gold
until we have taken Ahmadnagar."
The camp seemed to come apart with the cheer that followed, and again
came the chant "Jadar-o-Akbar," "Jadar-o-Akbar." The sound was as one
voice, and now even the distant hills echoed back the sound. Again
Jadar stopped them.
"Your pledge to me must be the same. And together we will take
Ahmadnagar in a hundred days. By the head of the Prophet I swear it to
you."
Again the chant. And again Jadar stopped them.
"Tonight I offer to fight for you. You must be ready to fight for me.
And each must hold the other to his pledge."
More cheers.
"I have spilled my wine. I will stay apart from my women. I have
smashed my gold and silver. I will give it to you. Each tent will have
a shard. But my eyes must never see it again."
The roar of approval was deafening.
"That is my pledge. You must also give me yours. Leave your women in
their tents and lie beside me under the stars. Empty your wine flasks
into the Narbada River as we cross. As your oath to fight to the death.
And all your silver, that of your vessels, that on your saddles, that
on your women, must be brought here tonight. Mark it with your seal,
and leave it under guard in my own wagons, away from all eyes, until
the day we reach Ahmadnagar. Then we will drink wine, we will have
women, we will wear our finest in victory."
Jadar paused dramatically. "Tonight we are many. Tomorrow we are one.
We march at sunrise!"
The cheers began again, and immediately the pile of silver started to
grow. Muslim nobles began bringing silver-trimmed saddles, plates, even
jewelry. But the most silver came from the Hindu infantry, as their
women were stripped of the silver bracelets and massive silver anklets
that had been their dowries.
Jadar sat unmoving on his elephant as the men began to come forward
with items of silver. Soon there was a line stretching into the dark of
the tents. He watched the pile growing, and his calculations began.
Will it be enough? The weight must be enough or the Shahbandar,
motherless thief that he is, will never agree. But I think we will have
it.
He thought back over the plan. It had required almost the entire
afternoon to refine. But when he had convinced himself that it would
succeed, he had posted the pigeons to Surat.
Where, he had asked himself, can I find fifty lakhs of silver, five
million rupees, within a month, and have them at Burhanpur when we
arrive? I'll not squeeze a copper _pice_, penny, from Agra.
If not Agra, where?
And slowly in his mind a form had taken shape. He had
examined it, almost touched it, puzzled over it. And then he knew what
it was.
The mint at Surat. Where foreign coin is melted and recast as rupees.
Fifty lakhs of silver rupees would scarcely be missed. Especially if
the Shahbandar would allow his minters to work a normal day. The
backlog of foreign coin he holds unmelted, creating an artificial
shortage of silver, would easily cover fifty lakhs of rupees. I need
only borrow what I need, and with it buy back into service the cavalry
I need to reclaim the Deccan.
The Shahbandar.
But will he do it?
He will. If I can show him collateral.
I don't have enough collateral. Not in my own funds. Not even in the
local treasuries.
But there must be enough silver in eighteen thousand tents to assemble
five million rupees.
I will hold it, and give him a note of obligation using it as
collateral. If we reach Ahmadnagar, I will squeeze the five million
rupees many times over from every traitorous _mansabdar _I do not hang.
I will confiscate their _jagir_ estates and let them buy them back. I
can easily confiscate enough to return the Shahbandar his loan, and
then my men will have back their silver.
If we do not reach Ahmadnagar, it will be because we are dead. So what
will it matter? We will make an oath to reach the city or die.
Only one problem remains.
How to move the coin from Surat to Burhanpur. Secretly. No one must
know where it came from or that it's being transferred. But a train
with fifty lakhs of rupees must be heavily guarded. And the guards will
betray its value.
Unless there can be some other reason for a heavily guarded train from
Surat to Burhanpur. A reason that would not automatically evoke
suspicion. Possibly a person of importance. Someone whom all India
knows cannot be touched. Someone important to the Moghul.
And then the perfect answer came. The most obvious answer of all. Who
will soon be traveling from Surat to Burhanpur, en route to Agra, under
safe conduct of the Moghul? The Englishman.
The infidel _feringhi _need never know. That with him will be the
silver that will save Prince Jadar.
CHAPTER TEN
Brian Hawksworth stepped lightly off the prow of the barge as
it eased into the riverbank and worked his way through the knee-deep
tidal mud onto the sandy shore. Even here, across the harbor, the water
still stank of the sewers of Surat. Then he turned and surveyed the
sprawling city, back across the broad estuary, astonished that they
could have crossed the harbor so easily on nothing more substantial
than a wide raft of boards lashed with rope, what the Indians called a
bark.
Ahead, waiting on the shore, was a line of loaded bullock carts--
conveyances with two wooden wheels higher than a man's head, a flat bed
some six feet wide, and a heavy bamboo pole for a tongue--each yoked to
two tall, humpbacked gray cattle with conspicuous ribs. The carts
stretched down the muddy road that emerged from the tangle of coastal
scrub and were piled to overflowing with rolls of English wool cloth.
The turbaned drivers now shouted Hindi obscenities as they walked
alongside and lashed the sullen cattle into place for unloading. As
Hawksworth watched, the porters who had ridden with him splashed their
way toward the shore and began driving stakes to secure the mooring
lines of the bark. Wool would be ferried across the harbor and cotton
brought back with each trip.
Then Hawksworth caught sight of George Elkington's ragged hat bobbing
in the midday sunshine as the Chief Merchant and his aide, Humphrey
Spencer, climbed down from their two-wheeled Indian coach, drawn by two
white oxen, which had been loaned by Shahbandar. Farther down the line
of carts was a detail of English seamen, led by red-haired Mackintosh,
and all carrying muskets, who had walked the fifteen-mile, two-day trek
to guard the cargo.
The trading season was well underway, and over the past three weeks a
motley assemblage of cargo vessels from the length of the Indian Ocean
had appeared downriver at the bar to commence unlading. Foreign traders
normally transported goods inland to Surat on the barks that plied the
Tapti between the port and the shallow bar at the river mouth. But
these vessels had arrived at the bar with the blessings of Portugal,
for they all had acquired a Portuguese license and paid duty on their
cargo at some Portuguese-controlled tax point.
After evaluating the risk of exposing his English frigates at the bar--
where maneuverability was limited and the possibility of Portuguese
surprise great--Brian Hawksworth had elected to unlade directly onshore
from their protected anchorage north of the river mouth, the cove
called Swalley, then haul the goods overland to the banks of the Tapti
opposite Surat. There would be no risk of Portuguese interference
inland and, once across from the port, the goods could be easily barged
to the _maidan_.
He turned again toward the river and examined the town of Surat from
his new vantage. It was easy to see now why this location had been
chosen for the port, for here the river curved and widened, creating a
natural, protected harbor. The most conspicuous landmarks visible from
across the harbor were three stone villas along the riverfront, all
owned by the Shahbandar, and the square stone fort that stood on the
downriver side of the harbor, its heavy ordnance trained perpetually on
the water. The fort was surrounded by a moat on three sides and on the
fourth by the river. Entry could only be gained through a gate on the
riverside, or a drawbridge that connected its entrance to the open
_maidan_, the square where traders congregated.
The square had swarmed with merchants and brokers as they passed
through, and he had watched as two brokers stood together near its
center--one from Ahmedabad, up-country, and the other from Surat--arguing
loudly over the price and quality of a pile of indigo. The porters
explained that the Surat broker was accusing the other of mixing sand
with the indigo to increase its weight, then disguising his deception
by also adding enough oil that the indigo would still float on water,
the test used to establish purity of the dried extract of the indigo
leaf. As the argument grew more vigorous, Hawksworth noticed the men
join hands beneath a piece of cloth, where they began negotiating the
actual price by means of their fingers, a figure undoubtedly little
related to the movement of their tongues.
Now that the high trading season of September-January had begun,
Surat's narrow streets were one loud bazaar, swollen to almost two
hundred thousand grasping traders, bargaining seamen, hawking
merchants. A dozen languages stirred the air as a motley mélange of up-
country Indian traders, Arabs, Jains, Parsis, Persians, Jews,
Egyptians, Portuguese, and returning Muslim pilgrims--every nationality
known to the Indian Ocean--swaggered through the garbage-sodden mud
paths called streets.
Hawksworth gazed back at the city and reflected over the curious events
of the past three weeks. The English had, inexplicably, been received
first with open hostility, and then with suspiciously cordial
deference--first by the governor, and afterward by the Shahbandar.
Something is very wrong, he told himself. A contest of wills is
underway between the Shahbandar, Mirza Nuruddin, and the governor,
Mukarrab Khan. And so far, Mukarrab Khan seems to be winning. Or is he?
Six days before, the governor had suddenly reversed his policy of
noninterference in port affairs and authorized a license for the
English to sell their cargo in Surat and buy Indian goods, something
the Shahbandar had found one excuse after another to delay. However,
Mukarrab Khan had delivered this license directly to the English,
rather than forwarding it to the Shahbandar through normal channels,
leaving Brian Hawksworth the unpleasant responsibility of presenting
this document to the Shahbandar in person. But the meeting turned out
to be nothing like Hawksworth had expected.
"Once more you astound me, Captain." The close, torch-lit chamber of
the customs house office had fallen expectantly silent as the
Shahbandar drew slowly on his hookah and squinted with his opaque,
glassy eyes at the black seal of Mukarrab Khan affixed to the top of
the page. Hawksworth had waited for a glimmer of anger at this
insulting breach of port protocol--which surely was Mukarrab Khan's
reason for insisting the license be delivered by the English Captain-
General. But the Shahbandar's eyes never lost their noncommittal
squint. Instead he had turned to Hawksworth with a cordial smile. "Your
refusal to negotiate seems to have worked remarkable dispatch with His
Excellency's officials. I can't recall ever seeing them act this
quickly."
Hawksworth had been amazed. How could Mirza Nuruddin possibly know the
terms he had demanded of the governor: produce a license for trade
within ten days or the two English frigates would weigh anchor and
sail; and accept English sovereigns at bullion value rather than the
prevailing discount rate of 4 1/2 percent required to circumvent
"minting time," the weeks "required" by the Shahbandar's minters to
melt down foreign coin and re-mint it as Indian rupees.
No one could have been more surprised than Brian Hawksworth when
Mukarrab Khan had immediately conceded the English terms and approved
the license--valid for sixty days--to land goods, and to buy and sell.
Why had the governor agreed so readily, overriding the Shahbandar's
dawdling clerks?
"Naturally you'll need an officer here to schedule the river barks."
The Shahbandar's voice was even, but Hawksworth thought he sensed an
air of tension suddenly grip the room. "Normally barks are reserved
weeks in advance now during the high season, but we can always
accommodate friends of Mukarrab Khan."
It was then that Hawksworth had told the Shahbandar he would not be
bringing cargo up the river, that instead it would be transported
overland from their protected anchorage using bullock carts arranged
for by Mukarrab Khan.
"The cove you call Swalley is several leagues up the coast, Captain.
Foreign cargo has never before been unladed there, nor has it ever been
brought overland as you propose." He had seemed genuinely disturbed. "I
suggest it's both irregular and unworkable."
"I think you understand why we have to unlade from the cove. The
decision is made." Hawksworth tried to keep his voice as firm as that
of Mirza Nuruddin. "We'll unload the bullock carts just across the
river from the port here, and we'll only need a bark to ferry goods
across the harbor."
"As you wish. I'll arrange to have one at your disposal." The
Shahbandar drew pensively on the hookah, ejecting coils of smoke into
the already dense air of the chamber, and examined Hawksworth. Then he
continued. "I understand your frigates are some five hundred tons each.
Full unlading will require at least three weeks, perhaps four. Is that
a reasonable estimate?"
"We'll arrange the scheduling. Why do you ask?"
"Merely for information, Captain." Again the Shahbandar flashed his
empty smile. Then he bowed as lightly as protocol would admit and
called for a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying the meeting was
ended. As Hawksworth took one, he marveled that he had so quickly
acquired a taste for their strange alkaline sweetness. Then he looked
again at Mirza Nuruddin's impassive eyes.
Damn him. Does he know what the Portugals were planning? And was he
hoping we'd be caught unlading in the shallows at the river mouth? He
knows I've just spoiled their plans.
As he had passed back through the customs shed headed toward the
_maidan_ and sunshine, Hawksworth could feel the hostile stares. And he
knew the reason.
The new English visitors had already made an unforgettable impression
on the town of Surat. The merchants George Elkington and Humphrey
Spencer had been given accommodations by a Portuguese-speaking Muslim,
whom Spencer had immediately outraged by demanding they be served pork.
The other men had been temporarily lodged in a vacant house owned by an
indigo broker. After the hard-drinking English seamen had disrupted
orderly proceedings in three separate brothels, and been banned in turn
by each, the Shahbandar had ordered five _nautch_ girls sent to them at
the house. But with fewer women than men, a fight inevitably had
ensued, with thorough demolition of the plaster walls and shutters.
Worst of all, bosun's mate John Garway had gone on a drunken spree in
the streets and, in a flourish of exuberance, severed the tail of a
bullock calf--an animal sacred to the Hindus--with his seaman's knife. A
riot in the Hindu quarter had erupted soon after, forcing Mukarrab Khan
to remove the English seamen outside the town walls, in tents erected
by the "tank," the city reservoir.
Yes, Hawksworth sighed, it'll be a long time before India forgets her
first taste of the English.
The barge bobbed lightly as two Indian porters, knee-deep in the mud,
hoisted the first roll of woolen cloth onto the planking. This begins
the final leg of the India voyage, Hawksworth thought to himself. And
this has been the easiest part of all.
Almost too easy.
Pox on it, believe in your luck for a change. The voyage will post a
fortune in pepper. Lancaster was knighted for little more than bringing
home his vessels. He reached Java, but he found no trade. He'd have
sailed home a pauper if he hadn't ambushed a rich Portuguese galleon in
the harbor at Sumatra.
How many weeks to a knighthood? Three? Four? No, we'll make it in less.
We'll man every watch. Woolens aland, cotton out. I'll have the
frigates laded, stores on board--we can buy cattle and sheep from
villages up the coast--and all repairs completed in two weeks. I'll have
both frigates in open seas inside a fortnight, where not a Portugal
bottom afloat can touch us.
And if permission for the trip to Agra comes, I'll be out of Surat too.
If I live that long.
He reached into his belt and drew out a long Portuguese stiletto. An
elaborate cross was etched into the blade, and
the handle was silver, with a ram's head at the butt. The ram's eyes
were two small rubies. He had been carrying it for two days, and he
reflected again on what had happened, still puzzling.
He had returned to the observatory the next morning after he had met
Shirin, and this time he brought his lute. But she did not come. That
morning, or the morning after, or the morning after. Finally he
swallowed his disappointment and concluded he would not see her again.
Then it was he had gone to work cleaning away the moss and accumulated
mud from the stone instruments. Parts of some seemed to be missing, and
he had searched the hut for these without success. All he had found was
a hand-held astrolabe, an instrument used to take the altitude of the
sun. But he also found tables, piles of handwritten tables, that seemed
to hold the key to the use of the instruments. His hopes had soared. It
seemed possible, just possible, that buried somewhere in the hut was
the key to the greatest mystery of all time--how to determine longitude
at sea.
Hawksworth had often pondered the difficulties of navigation in the
deep ocean, where only the sun and stars were guides. They were the
primary determent to England's new ambition to explore the globe, for
English navigators were still far less experienced than those of the
Spanish and Portuguese.
The problem seemed overwhelming. Since the great earth was curved, no
line on its surface was straight, and once at sea there was absolutely
no way to determine exactly where you were, which way you were going,
or how fast.
The least uncertain measurement was probably latitude, a ship's
location north or south of the equator. In the northern hemisphere the
height of the polestar was a reasonably accurate determinant of
latitude, although it was a full three degrees distant from the
northernmost point in the sky. Another measure of latitude was the
height of the sun at midday, corrected for the specific day of the
year. The problem lay in how to measure either of these elevations
accurately.
A hundred years before, the Portuguese had come across an ingenious
Arab device for telling the elevation of the sun. It consisted of a
board with a knotted length of string run through the middle. If a
mariner held the board vertically and sighted the horizon at one end
and some object in the sky at the other, the length of the string
between the board and his eye could be used to calculate the elevation
of the object. In a short time a version appeared in Europe--with a
second board replacing the string--called the cross-staff.
However, since locating both the horizon and a star was almost
impossible at any time except dawn or dusk, this device worked best for
sighting the sun--save that it required staring into the disc of the sun
to find its exact center. Also, the cross-staff could not be used when
the sun was high in the sky, which was the case in equatorial waters.
Another version of the cross-staff was the astrolabe, a round brass
dial etched with degree markings and provided with a movable sight that
permitted taking the elevation of the sun by its shadow. But even with
the astrolabe there was the problem of catching the sun precisely at
midday. And on a rolling ship the error in reading it could easily be
four degrees.
For longitude, a ship's location east or west on the globe, there were
no fixed references at all; but as a mariner traveled east or west, the
sun would come up somewhat earlier or later each day, and precisely how
much earlier or later could be used to compute how far he had gone.
Therefore, calculating longitude depended solely on keeping time
extremely accurately--something completely impossible. The best
timekeeping device available was the hourglass or "sandglass," invented
somewhere in the western Mediterranean in the eleventh or twelfth
century. Sandglass makers never achieved real accuracy or consistency,
and careful mariners always used several at once, hoping to average out
variations. But on a long voyage seamen soon totally lost track of
absolute time.
Since they were unable to determine a ship's location from the skies,
mariners also tried to compute it from a vessel's speed and direction.
Speed was estimated by throwing a log
with a knotted rope attached overboard and timing the rate at which the
knots in the rope played out--using a sandglass. Margins of error in
computing speed were usually substantial. Direction, too, was never
known completely accurately. A compass pointed to magnetic north, not
true north, and the difference between these seemed to vary
unaccountably at different locations on the globe. Some thought it had
to do with the lodestone used to magnetize the needle, and others, like
the Grand Pilot of the king of Spain, maintained seamen were merely
lying to cover their own errors.
For it all, however, longitude was the most vital unknown. Many
attempts had been made to find a way to fix longitude, but nothing ever
worked. Seamen found the only real solution to the problem was
"latitude sailing," a time-consuming and expensive procedure whereby a
captain would sail north or south to the approximate latitude of his
destination and then sail due east or west, rather than trying to sail
on the diagonal. King Philip III of Spain had offered a fortune to the
first man who discovered how to tell longitude at sea.
Hawksworth spent days poring through the piles of tables, many of which
were strewn about the floor of the room and damaged from mildew and
rot. Next he carefully copied the symbols off the walls of the circular
building and matched these with those on several of the charts. Were
these the names of the major stars, or constellations of the zodiac, or
. . . what? The number was twenty-eight.
And then it came to him: they were the daily stations of the moon.
As he continued to sift through the documents, he realized that the
scholar who wrote them had predicted eclipses of the moon for many
years in advance. Then he found a book, obviously old, with charts that
seemed to provide geometric corrections for the distortion caused by
the atmosphere when sighting stars near the horizon, something that
always had been troublesome for navigators.
He also found other writings. New. Some appeared to be verses, and
others, tables of names and numbers. Sums of
money were written next to some of the names. But none of it meant
anything without the Persian, which he could not read. And Shirin had
never returned to the observatory, at least not when he was there.
Until two days ago.
At the observatory that morning the sky had been a perfect ice blue,
the garden and orchard still, the air dry and exhilarating. No workmen
were splashing in the moat beyond the wall that day. Only the buzz of
gnats intruded on the silence. He had brought a bottle of dry Persian
wine to make the work go faster, finding he was growing accustomed to
its taste. And he had brought his lute, as always, in hope Shirin would
come again.
He was in the stone hut, cleaning and sorting pages of manuscript, when
she appeared silently in the doorway. He looked up and felt a sudden
rush in his chest.
"Have you uncovered all of Jamshid Beg's secrets?" Her voice was
lilting, but with a trace of unease. "I've found out that was our
famous astronomer's name. He was originally from Samarkand."
"I think I'm beginning to understand some of the tables." Hawksworth
kept his tone matter-of-fact. "He should have been a navigator. He
could have been a fellow at Trinity House."
"What is that?"
"It's a guild in England. Where navigators are trained."
She laughed. "I think he preferred a world made only of numbers." Her
laugh was gone as quickly as it had come, and she moved toward him with
a vaguely troubled look. "What have you found?"
"A lot of things. Take a look at this drawing." Hawksworth tried to
remain nonchalant as he moved the lamp back to the table from where he
had placed it on the floor. "He identified what we call parallax, the
slight circular motion of the moon throughout the day caused by the
fact it's not sighted from the center of the earth, but from a spot on
its surface that moves as the earth rotates. Now if he could measure
that accurately enough with these instruments . . ."
Shirin waved her hand and laughed again. "If you
understand all this, why not just take the papers back to the palace
and work with them there?" She was in the room now, her olive cheeks
exquisitely shadowed by the partially open door, where flickering
shadows played lightly through the brilliant sunshine. "Today I'd
rather hear you play your English instrument."
"With pleasure. I've been trying to learn an Indian raga." He kept his
voice even and moved himself deftly between Shirin and the doorway,
blocking her exit. "But it sounds wrong on the lute. When I get to Agra
I'm thinking I'll have a sitar made . . ."
He reached as though for the lute, then swung his hand upward and
clapped it over Shirin's mouth. Before she could move he shoved her
against the wall beside the door and stretched with his other hand to
seize the heavy brass astrolabe that rested on a stand by the table. He
caught a look of pure terror in her eyes, and for a moment he thought
she might scream. He pressed her harder against the wall to seal her
mouth, and as the shaft of light from the doorway dimmed momentarily he
stepped forward and swung the brass astrolabe upward.
There was a soft sound of impact, followed by a choked groan and the
clatter of metal against the wooden door. He drew back the astrolabe,
now with a trace of blood along its sharp edge and the remains of a
tooth wedged between its discs. Then he looked out to see a dark-
skinned Indian man in a loincloth rolling himself across the top of the
garden wall. A faint splash followed, as he dropped into the moat.
When Hawksworth released Shirin and placed the astrolabe back on its
stand, he caught the glint of sunshine off a stiletto lying in the
doorway. He bent down to retrieve it and suddenly she was next to him,
holding his arm and staring at the place where the man had scaled the
wall.
"He was a Sudra, a low caste." She looked at the stiletto in
Hawksworth's hand, and her voice turned to scorn. "It's Portuguese.
Only the Portuguese would hire someone like that, instead of a Rajput."
Then she laughed nervously. "If they'd hired a Rajput, someone would be
dead now. Hire a Sudra and you get a Sudra's work."
"Who was it?"
"Who knows? The horse bazaar is full of men who would kill for ten
rupees." She pointed toward the wall. "Do you see that piece of cloth?
There on the old spike. I think it's a piece of his _dhoti_. Would you
get it for me?"
After Hawksworth had retrieved the shred of cotton loincloth, brown
from a hundred washings in the river, she had taken it from him without
a word.
"What will you do with it?"
"Don't." She touched a finger to his lips. "These are things it's best
not to ask." Then she tucked the brown scrap into the silken sash at
her waist and moved toward the door. "And it would be better if you
forgot about today."
Hawksworth watched her for a second, then seized her arm and turned her
facing him. "I may not know what's going on. But, by Jesus, I'll know
before you leave. And you can start by telling me why you come here."
She stared back at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. There was
something in them he had never seen before, almost admiration. Then she
caught herself and drew back, dropping into a chair. "Very well.
Perhaps you do deserve to know." She slipped the translucent scarf from
her hair and tossed it across the table. "Why don't you open the wine
you brought? I'll not tell you everything, because you shouldn't want
me to, but I'll tell you what's important for you."
Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, his
hand still trembling.
"Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip.
"I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufi
rascal."
"Is that what he said? Good. That only confirms once again what I think
of His Excellency." She laughed with contempt. "Samad is a great poet.
He's perhaps the last great Persian writer, in the tradition of Omar
Khayyam. He has favored me by allowing me to be one of his disciples."
"So you come here to write poems?"
"When I feel something I want to say."
"But I've also found lists of names here, and numbers."
"I told you I can't tell you everything." Shirin's look darkened
momentarily as she drank again lightly from the cup, then settled it on
the table. He found himself watching her face, drawn to her by
something he could not fully understand. "But I can tell you this.
There's someone in India who will one day rid us of the infidel
Portuguese. Do you know of Prince Jadar?"
"He's the son of the Moghul. I'm guessing he'll probably succeed one
day."
"He should. If he's not betrayed. Things are very unsettled in Agra. He
has many enemies there." She paused. "He has enemies here."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Then you should. Because what happens in Agra will affect everyone.
Even you."
"But what does Agra politics have to do with me? The knife was
Portuguese."
"To understand what's happening, you should first know about Akman, the
one we remember now as the Great Moghul. He was the father of Arangbar,
the Moghul now. I was only a small girl when Akman died, but I still
remember my sadness, my feeling the universe would collapse. We
worshiped him almost. It's not talked about now, but the truth is Akman
didn't really want Arangbar to succeed him, nobody did. But he had no
choice. In fact, when Akman died, Arangbar's eldest son started a
rebellion to deny him the throne, but that son's troops betrayed him,
and after they surrendered Arangbar blinded him in punishment. Khusrav,
his own son. Although Prince Jadar was still only a young boy then, we
all thought after that he would be Moghul himself one day. But that was
before the Persians came to power in Agra."
"But aren't you Persian yourself?"
"I was born in India, but yes, I have the great fortune to be of
Persian blood. There are many Persians in India. You know, Persians
still intimidate the Moghuls. Ours is a magnificent culture, an ancient
culture, and Persians never let the Moghuls forget it." Shirin had
dabbed at her brow and rose to peer out the door of the observatory
building, as though by instinct. "Did you know that the first Moghul
came to India less than a hundred years ago, actually after the
Portuguese? He was named Babur, a distant descendant of the Mongol
warrior Genghis Khan, and he was from Central Asia. Babur was the
grandfather of Akman. They say he had wanted to invade Persia but that
the ruling dynasty, the Safavis, was too strong. So he invaded India
instead, and the Moghuls have been trying to make it into Persia ever
since. That's why Persians can always find work in India. They teach
their language at court, and give lessons in fashion, and in painting
and garden design. Samad came here from Persia, and now he's the
national poet."
"What do these Persians have to do with whatever's happening in Agra?
Are you, or your family, somehow involved too?"
"My father was Shayhk Mirak." She hesitated a moment, as though
expecting a response. Then she continued evenly, "Of course, you'd not
know of him. He was a court painter. He came to India when Akman was
Moghul and took a position under the Persian Mir Sayyid Ali, who
directed the painting studio Akman founded. You know, I've always found
it amusing that Akman had to use Persian artists to create the Moghul
school of Indian painting. Anyway, my father was very skilled at Moghul
portraits, which everybody now says were invented by Akman. And when
Akman died, Arangbar named my father to head the school. It lasted
until she was brought to Agra."
"Who?"
"The queen, the one called Janahara."
"But why was your father sent away?"
"Because I was sent away."
Hawksworth thought he sensed a kind of nervous intensity quivering
behind Shirin's voice. It's your story, he told himself, that I'd
really like to hear. But he said nothing, and the silence swelled.
Finally she spoke again.
"To understand the trouble now, you must understand about the queen.
Her story is almost amazing, and already legends are growing around
her. It's said she was born the day her father, Zainul Beg, left Persia
as an adventurer bound for India. He ordered her abandoned in the sun
to die, but after the caravan traveled on his wife lamented for the
baby so much he decided to return for her. Although the sun was
intense, they found her still alive. It's said a cobra was shading her
with his hood." Shirin turned to Hawksworth, her dark eyes seeming to
snap. "Can you believe such a story?"
"No. It sounds like a fable."
"Neither can I. But half the people in India do. Her father finally
reached Lahore, the city in India where Akman was staying, and managed
to enter his service. Like any Persian he did very well, and before
long Akman gave him a _mansab _rank of three hundred _zat_. His wife
and daughter were allowed to come and go among the palace women. Then,
when she was seventeen, this little Persian girl of the cobra began her
plan. She repeatedly threw herself across the path of the Moghul's son
Arangbar, whom she rightly guessed would be next in line for the
throne. He was no match for her, and now people say she won his heart
before he knew it himself. My own belief is she cast a spell on him."
"And he married her?"
"Of course not. Akman was no fool. He knew she was a schemer, and when
he saw what she was doing he immediately had her married to a Persian
general named Sher Afgan, whom he then appointed governor of Bengal, a
province in the distant east of India. Akman died a few years after
that, still thinking he had saved Arangbar from her, but he hadn't
counted on the spell."
"So how did she get back to Agra, and become queen?"
"That part I know very well." Shirin laughed bitterly. "I was there.
You see, Arangbar never forgot his Persian cobra girl, even after he
became Moghul himself. And he found a way to get her back. One day he
announced he was receiving reports of unrest in Bengal, where Sher
Afgan was still governor, and he summoned the governor to Agra to
explain. When no answer came, he sent troops. Nobody knows what
happened, but the story was given out that Sher Afgan drew a sword on
Arangbar's men. Perhaps he did. They say he was impulsive. But the
Imperial troops cut him down. Then Arangbar ordered Sher Afgan's
Persian wife and her little daughter, Layla, back to Agra and put them
under the protection of his mother, the dowager queen. Then, just as
we'd all predicted, he married her. At first he was going to put her in
the _zenana_, the harem, but she refused. She demanded to be made his
queen, an equal. And that's what he did. Except now she's actually
more. She's the real ruler of India."
"And you were in the harem, the _zenana_, then?" Hawksworth decided to
gamble on the story he had heard.
Shirin stared at him, trying to hide what seemed to be surprise. "You
know." For a moment he thought she might reach out and touch his hand,
but then she drew back into herself. "Yes, I was still in the _zenana_
then, but not for long. The first thing Janahara did was find out which
women Arangbar favored, and she then had us all married off to
governors of provinces far from Agra. You know a Muslim man is allowed
four wives, so there's always room for one more. Mukarrab Khan got me."
"She seems very clever."
"You haven't heard even half her story yet. Next she arranged to have
her brother, Nadir Sharif, appointed prime minister, and her father,
Zainul Beg, made chief adviser to Arangbar. So now she and her family
control the Moghul and everyone around him." Shirin paused. "Not quite
everyone. Yet. Not Prince Jadar."
"But he'll be the next Moghul. When that happens, what becomes of her?"
"He _should _be the next Moghul. And if he is, her power will be gone.
That's why she wants to destroy him now."
"But how can she, if he's the rightful heir?" Hawksworth found himself
suddenly dismayed by the specter of Agra in turmoil.
"No one knows. But she'll think of a way. And then she'll find someone
she can control to be the next Moghul."''
'But why do you care so much who succeeds Arangbar?"
"One reason I care is because of Samad." Her eyes suddenly saddened.
"Now I really don't understand. He's a poet. Why should
it matter to him?"
"Because the queen would like to see him dead. He has too much
influence. You must understand that the queen and her family are
Shi'ites, a Persian sect of Islam. They believe all men should bow to
some dogmatic mullah, whom they call an _imam_. But this was never in
the teachings given to the Prophet."
A curse on all religions, Hawksworth had thought. Am I caught in the
middle of some Muslim holy war?
"But why do these Persians, or their _imams_, want to be rid of Samad?"
"Because he's a Sufi, a mystic, who teaches that we all should find God
within our own selves. Without the mullahs. That's why the Persian
Shi'ites despise him and want him dead."
"Then he's supporting Prince Jadar?"
"Samad does not concern himself with politics. But it's the duty of the
others of us, those who understand what is happening, to help Prince
Jadar. Because we know he will stop the Persians and their Shi'ites who
are now spreading their poison of hate in India, and he'll also rid
India of the Portuguese. I'm sure of it." She paused for a moment. "You
know, it's always seemed ironic that the Persians and the Portuguese
should actually work together. But in a way each needs the other. The
Portuguese have made the Persians, particularly the queen and her
brother, Nadir Sharif, very rich, and in return they're allowed to send
their Jesuits to preach. So both the Persians and the Portuguese want
to prevent Prince Jadar from becoming the next Moghul, since they know
he'd like nothing better than to rid India of them both."
"But what does this have to do with me? I just want a trading _firman_
from Arangbar. He's still alive and healthy, and he should know the
Portugals can't stop English trading ships from coming here. Why
shouldn't he give us a _firman_?"
"Can't you see? The English can never be allowed to trade here. It
would be the beginning of the end for the Portuguese. It would show all
the world they no longer can control India's ports. But what I'm really
trying to make you see is that it's not only the Portuguese who want to
stop you. It's also the people who support them. So no one can aid you
openly. The Persians are already too powerful. Still, there are those
here who would protect you."
"Who do you mean?"
"How could I possibly tell you?" She held him with her eyes. "I
scarcely know you. But you should listen to your intuition. Samad says
we all have an inner voice that tells us what is true."
This time she did reach and touch his hand, and her touch was strangely
warm in the chill of the room. "I can't tell you any more, really. So
now will you play for me? Something tender, perhaps. A song you would
play for the woman you left behind you in England."
"I didn't have all that much to leave behind." He picked up the lute.
"But I'll be happy to play for you."
"You have no one?"
"There was a woman in London. But she married while I was . . . gone."
"She wouldn't wait while you were away?" Shirin sipped again from her
cup and her eyes darkened. "That must have been very sad for you."
"It could be she didn't think I was worth waiting for." He hesitated.
"I've had some time to think about it since. In a way it was probably
my own fault. I think she wanted more than I was ready to give."
She looked at him and smiled. "Perhaps what she wanted was you. And you
wouldn't give yourself. Tell me what she was like."
"What was she like?" He looked away, remembering Maggie's face with a
strange mixture of longing and bitterness. "Well, she's like nobody
I've seen in India. Red hair, blue eyes . . . and a salty tongue." He
laughed. "If she was ever anybody's fourth wife, I'd pity the other
three." He felt his laugh fade. "I missed her a lot when I was away
before. But now . . ." He tried to shrug.
She looked at him as though she understood it all. "Then if you won't
play for her any more, will you play just for me? One of your English
ragas?"
"What if I played a suite by Dowland, one of our English composers?
It's one of my favorites." He found himself smiling again, the lute
comfortable and reassuring in his grasp. "I hope you won't think it
sounds too out of place."
"We're both out of place here now." She returned his smile wistfully
and glanced at the papers on the desk. "You and me."
Hawksworth saw George Elkington approaching and dropped the dagger
quickly into his boot.
"'Twill take a lifetime the rate these heathens dawdle." Elkington
wiped a sweaty arm across his brow. Deep bags sagged under his
bloodshot eyes. "An' we'll be months movin' the lead and ironwork with
these damn'd rickety carts. Not to mention the silver bullion for
buyin' commodity. We'll have to get a barge."
"How many more trips do you need to bring in the wool?"
"Can't say. But 'tis clear we'll need more of these damn'd carts, for
what little they're worth." As Elkington turned to spit, he spotted a
porter who had let a roll of woolen cloth dip into the river, and his
neck veins pulsed. "Hey, you heathen bastard, mind the water!" He
stumbled after the terrified man trailing a stream of oaths.
Hawksworth leaned against the wooden spokes of a bullock cart and
quickly passed the stiletto from his boot back to his belt. As he
watched, the bark tipped, beginning to list dangerously, and then he
heard Elkington command the porters to stop the loading and prepare to
get underway. Only five of the twenty-five bullock carts had been
emptied, and the sun was already approaching midafternoon. As
Hawksworth had watched the men at work, some corner of his mind had
become dimly aware of a curious anomaly. Whereas the Shahbandar's
porters were working at full speed, the drivers of the bullock carts
seemed actually to be hindering the unloading--moving the carts around
in a confused way that always kept the work disorganized. And a number
of answers began, just began, to fall into place.
"Captain-General Hawksworth, do you expect to be joinin' us?" George
Elkington stalked up and began to scrape his muddy boots on the spokes
of the bullock cart
"Elkington, I want you to dismiss these drivers." Hawksworth ignored
his sarcastic tone. "I want the Shahbandar to supply all our men from
now on."
"What the bloody hell for?" Elkington tightened his hat and hitched up
his belt.
"Something's wrong. Did you have any accidents coming in from Swalley?"
"Accidents? Nay, not a bleedin' one. Unless you'd call the axle of a
cart breakin' the first day and blockin' a narrow turn in the road,
with mud on both sides so we couldn't pass and had to unload the whole
bleedin' lot and look half the mornin' for another cart to hire. An'
then the drivers had a fight over who was responsible, and who'd pay
for what, and we couldn't start till after midday. And yesterday one of
their damn'd bullocks died, right in the road. Which is scarce wonder,
considerin' how worn out they are. Nay, we had no accidents. The whole
bleedin' trip was an accident."
"Then let's get rid of them all. Men, carts, bullocks, the lot. And
hire new. Let the Shahbandar hire them for us. We pay in silver, and
give him his commission, and I'm sure he'll provide us what we need."
"Think he can do any better?" Elkington's skeptical eyes squinted
against the sun. "These damn'd heathens all appear similar."
"I think he'll make a difference. They all seem terrified of him. We
have to try." Hawksworth started for the barge.
"You don't have much time left." Shirin had said. "Try to understand
what's happening."
The porters were loosening the lines on the pegs. The bark was ready to
get underway.
"Don't assume you know who'll aid you," she had said. "Help may come in
a way that surprises you. It can't be known who's helping you."
He waded through the mud and pulled himself onto the
bark. Then he turned and rolled over onto a bale of cloth. The sky was
flawless and empty.
"Just trust what feels right," she had said, and for no reason at all
she had reached out and touched his lute. "Learn to trust your senses.
Most of all"--she had taken his hand and held it longer than she should
have--"learn to open yourself."
They were underway.
The Shahbandar watched from the _maidan_ as the bark of English woolens
moved in short spurts toward the steps below him. Oars sparkled in the
sunshine, and the faint chant of the rowers bounced, garbled, across
the waves. Behind him two short, surly-eyed men held the large umbrella
that shaded his face and rotund belly. A circle of guards with poles
pushed away traders who shouted begs and bribes for a moment of his
time injtheir tent, to inspect their goods please and render them
salable commodity with his chapp and an invoice stating their worth,
preferably undervalued. The 2 1/2 percent duty was prescribed by the
Moghul. The assessed value was not.
Mirza Nuruddin ignored them. He was calculating time, not rupees.
His latest report was that four weeks more were needed for the Viceroy
to outfit the galleons and fireships. But the single-masted frigatta
bringing the news from Goa was two weeks in travel. Which means the
galleons will be here within three, perhaps two weeks, he told himself.
A Portuguese armada of twelve warships. The Englishman's luck has run
out. They'll be caught unlading and burned.
He fingered the shred of dirty cloth tucked in his waist. It had been
sent by Shirin, wrapped with a gift of aga of the rose. Her cryptic
note had told him all he had needed to know. When his spies reported no
one recently injured among the servants of the Portuguese Jesuits, the
search had begun in the horse bazaar. They had found the man the next
day. The truth had come quickly when Mirza Nuruddin's name was
mentioned.
And nothing had been learned. The man had been given the knife by
Hindi-speaking servants. Their master's name was never divulged. But
they knew well the routine of the Englishman, and the location of the
observatory.
And now I must tamper with your destiny, English captain. We are all--
you, I, the prince--captives of a world we no longer can fully control.
He asked himself again why he had made the choice, finally. To take the
risks Jadar had asked, when the odds against the prince were growing
daily. It was stupid to support him now, and Mirza Nuruddin had always
held absolute contempt for stupidity, particularly when it meant
supporting a hopeless cause.
If the queen crushes him, as she very likely will, I've jeopardized my
position, my holdings, probably my life.
The prince does not understand how difficult my task is. The infidel
Englishman is almost too clever.
I had planned it perfectly. I had shown them the opportunity for great
profit, then denied it to them. They were preparing to leave, but
surely they would have returned, with a fleet. Then Mukarrab Khan
approved their trade, after waiting until he was certain the Portuguese
preparations were almost complete. So now they remain, awaiting their
own destruction, never to leave again. And when these frigates are
destroyed, will any English ever return?
The Englishman will surely be dead, or sent to Goa. There'll be no trip
to Agra. And Arangbar will never know why.
But the silver coin will soon be ready. And the prince's cipher today
said Vasant Rao himself will arrive in ten days to escort the
Englishman and the silver as far as Burhanpur. Time is running out.
There's only one solution left. Will it work?
The barge eased into the shallows and the porters slid into the water,
each already carrying a roll of cloth.
"I expected this difficulty, Captain Hawksworth. But your
path is of your own making. You yourself chose to unlade at that
distance from the port." They were in Mirza Nuruddin's chamber, and the
Shahbandar faced Hawksworth and Elkington with his rheumy, fogbound
eyes. The chamber had been emptied, as Hawksworth had demanded. "I
propose you consider the following. Unlade the woolens from your
smaller frigate immediately, and let me oversee their transport here."
He drew nonchalantly on the hookah. "My fee would be a small commission
above the cost of hiring the carts. One percent if they are delivered
here within two weeks. Two percent if they are delivered within one
week. Do you accept?"
Hawksworth decided not to translate the terms for Elkington.
"We accept." It seems fair, he told himself. This is no time to
bargain.
"You show yourself reasonable. Now, the lead and ironwork you have
cargoed is another matter. Bullock carts are totally unsuitable for
those weights in this sandy coastal delta. The weights involved require
they be transported by river bark. And that means unlading at the river
mouth."
Hawksworth shook his head. "We'll dump the cargo first. We can't take
the risk now."
"Captain, there is risk and there is risk. What is life itself if not
risk? Without risk what man can call himself alive?" Mirza Nuruddin
thought of his own risk at this moment, how his offer of help to the
English would immediately be misconstrued by the entire port. Until the
plan had played through to its ending. Then the thought of the ending
buoyed him and he continued, his voice full of solicitude. "I can
suggest a strategy for unlading your ironwork at the river mouth in
reasonable safety, after your frigates have been lightened of their
wool. With an experienced pilot, you can sail along the shoreline,
south to the bar, and anchor under cover of dark. Barks can be waiting
to unlade you. If the lead and ironwork are ready for unlading, perhaps
it can be completed in one night. You can unlade the smaller frigate
first, return it to the cove you call Swalley, and then unlade the
other vessel. That way only one frigate is exposed at a time."
As Hawksworth and Elkington listened, Mirza Nuruddin outlined the
details of his offer. He would hire whatever men were needed. He
normally did this for foreign traders, and took a percentage from them--
as well as from the meager salary of the men he hired. And he already
had a pilot in mind, a man who knew every shoal and sandbar on the
coastline.
As Hawksworth listened his senses suddenly told him to beware. Hadn't
Shirin told him to trust his intuition? And this scheme was too pat.
This time his guts told him to dump the lead in the bay and write off
the loss. But Elkington would never agree. He would want to believe
they could unlade and sell the lead. His responsibility was profit on
the cargo, not the risk of a vessel.
So he would take this final risk. Perhaps Mirza Nuruddin was right.
Risk exhilarated.
He smiled inwardly and thought again of Shirin. And of what she had
said about trusting his instincts.
Then, ignoring them, he agreed to Mirza Nuruddin's plan.
And the Shahbandar produced a document already prepared for their
signature.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Now we will begin. As my guest, you have first throw of the
dice." Mirza Nuruddin fingered the gold and ivory inlay of the wooden
dice cup as he passed it to Hawksworth. Then he drew a heavy gurgle of
smoke from his hookah, savoring the way it raced his heart for that
brief instant before its marvelous calm washed over his nerves. He
needed the calm. He knew that any plan, even one as carefully conceived
as the one tonight, could fail through the blundering of incompetents.
Or betrayal. But tonight, he told himself, tonight you will win the
game.
The marble-paved inner court of the Shahbandar's sprawling brick estate
house was crowded almost to overflowing: with wealthy Hindu money-
lenders, whose mercenary hearts were as black as their robes were
white; Muslim port officials in silks and jewels, private riches
gleaned at public expense; the turbaned captains of Arab cargo ships
anchored at the bar, hard men in varicolored robes who sat sweltering,
smoking, and drinking steaming coffee; and a sprinkling of Portuguese
in starched doublets, the captains and officers of the three Portuguese
trading frigatta now anchored at the bar downriver.
Servants wearing only white loincloths circulated decanters of wine and
boxes of rolled betel leaves as an antidote to the stifling air that
lingered even now, almost at midnight, from a broiling day. The
torchbearers of Mirza Nuruddin's household stood on the balconies
continuously dousing a mixture of coconut oil and rose attar onto their
huge flambeaux. Behind latticework screens the _nautch_ girls waited in
boredom, braiding their hair, smoothing their skintight trousers,
inspecting themselves in the ring-mirror on their right thumb, and
chewing betel. The dancing would not begin until well after midnight.
As Hawksworth took the dice cup, the sweating crowd fell expectantly
silent, and for the first time he noticed the gentle splash of the
river below them, through the trees.
He stared for a moment at the lined board lying on the carpet between
them, then he wished himself luck and tossed the three dice along its
side. They were ivory and rectangular, their four long sides numbered
one, two, five, and six with inlaid teakwood dots. He had thrown a one
and two sixes.
"A propitious start. You English embrace fortune as a Brahmin his
birthright." The Shahbandar turned and smiled toward the Portuguese
captains loitering behind him, who watched mutely, scarcely masking
their displeasure at being thrown together with the heretic English
captain. But an invitation from the Shahbandar was not something a
prudent trader declined. "The night will be long, however. This is only
your beginning."
Hawksworth passed the cup to the Shahbandar and stared at the board,
trying to understand the rules of _chaupar_, the favorite game of India
from the Moghul's _zenana _to the lowliest loitering scribe. The board
was divided into four quadrants and a central square, using two sets of
parallel lines, which formed a large cross in its middle. Each quadrant
was divided into three rows, marked with spaces for moving pieces. Two
or four could play, and each player had four pieces of colored teak
that were placed initially at the back of two of the three spaced rows.
After each dice throw, pieces were moved forward one or more spaces in
a row until reaching its end, then up the next row, until they reached
the square in the center. A piece reaching the center was called
_rasida_, arrived.
Hawksworth remembered that a double six allowed him to move two of his
pieces, those standing together, a full twelve spaces ahead. As he
moved the pieces forward, groans and oaths in a number of languages
sounded through the night air. Betting had been heavy on the
Shahbandar, who had challenged both Hawksworth and the senior
Portuguese captain to a set of games. Only an adventurous few in the
crowd would straddle their wagers and accept the long odds that the
English captain would, or could, be so impractical as to defeat the man
who must value and apply duty to his goods.
"Did I tell you, Captain Hawksworth, that _chaupar _was favored by the
Great Moghul, Akman?" The Shahbandar rattled the dice in the cup for a
long moment. "There's a story, hundreds of years old, that once a ruler
of India sent the game of chess, what we call _chaturanga_ in India, to
Persia as a challenge to their court. They in return sent _chaupar_ to
India." He paused dramatically. "It's a lie invented by a Persian."
He led the explosion of laughter and threw the dice. A servant called
the numbers and the laughter died as suddenly as it had come.
"The Merciful Prophet's wives were serpent-tongued Bengalis."
He had thrown three ones.
A terrified servant moved the pieces while Mirza Nuruddin took a betel
leaf from a tray and munched it sullenly. The crowd's tension was
almost palpable.
Hawksworth took the cup and swirled it again. He absently noted that
the moon had emerged from the trees and was now directly overhead. The
Shahbandar seemed to notice it as well.
Mackintosh watched as the last grains of red marble sand slipped
through the two-foot-high hourglass by the binnacle and then he
mechanically flipped it over. The moon now cast the shadow of the
mainmast yard precisely across the waist of the ship, and the tide had
begun to flow in rapidly. The men of the new watch were silently
working their way up the shrouds.
"Midnight. The tide's up. There's nae need to wait more." He turned to
Captain Kerridge, who stood beside him on the quarterdeck of the
_Resolve_. George Elkington stood directly behind Kerridge.
"Let's get under sail." Elkington tapped out his pipe on the railing.
Then he turned to Kerridge. "Did you remember to douse the stern
lantern?"
"I give the orders, Mr. Elkington. And you can save your questions for
the pilot." Captain Jonathan Kerridge was a small, weasel-faced man
with no chin and large bulging eyes. He signaled the _Resolve_'s
quartermaster and the anchor chain began to rattle slowly up the side.
Then the mainsail dropped, hung slack for a moment, and bellied against
the wind, sending a groan through the mast. They were underway. The
only light on board was a small, shielded lantern by the binnacle, for
reading the large boxed compass.
The needle showed their course to be almost due south, toward the bar
at the mouth of the Tapti. On their right was the empty bay and on
their left the glimmer of occasional fires from the shoreline. The
whipstaff had been taken by the Indian pilot, a wrinkled nut-brown man
the Shahbandar had introduced as Ahmet. He spoke a smattering of
Portuguese and had succeeded in explaining that he could reliably cover
the eight-mile stretch south from Swalley to the unloading bar at the
Tapti river mouth in one turn of the hourglass, if Allah willed. With
high tide, he had also managed to explain, there were only two sandbars
they would have to avoid.
And there would be no hostiles abroad this night. Even the Portuguese
trading frigates were safely at anchor off the river mouth, for this
evening their captains had been honored by an invitation to attend the
gathering at Mirza Nuruddin's estate.
"Your beginning has been impressive, Captain Hawksworth. But now you
must still maintain your advantage." Mirza Nuruddin watched as
Hawksworth threw a double five and a two, advancing two of his four
pieces into the central square. The crowd groaned, coins began to
change hands. "You have gained _rasida _for two pieces. I'll save time
and concede this game. But we have six more to play. _Chaupar _is a bit
like life. It favors those with endurance."
As the board was cleared for the next game, Mirza Nuruddin rose and
strode to the end of the court. The wind was coming up now, as it
always did on this monthly night of full moon and tide, sweeping up the
river bringing the fresh salt air of the sea. And the currents would be
shifting along the coast, as sandbars one by one were submerged by the
incoming tide. He barked an inconsequential order to a hovering servant
and then made his way back to the board, his guests parting
automatically before him. The drinking crowd had already begun to turn
boisterous, impatient for the appearance of the women. As always, the
_nautch _girls would remain for additional entertainment after their
dance, in private quarters available in the rambling new palace.
"This game I will throw first." The Shahbandar seated himself, and
watched as Hawksworth drew on a tankard of brandy, especially provided
for the Europeans present. Then Mirza Nuruddin made a deft twist of the
cup and the ivories dropped on the carpet in a neat row of three sixes.
A servant
barked the numbers and the crowd pressed forward as one to watch.
"Fifteen fathom and falling." The bosun leaned back from the
railing and shouted toward the quarterdeck. In disbelief he quickly
drew the line in over the gunwale at the waist of the _Resolve_ and fed
it out again.
"Now she reads thirteen fathom."
Kerridge glanced at the hourglass. The sand was half gone, and
the compass reading still gave their course as due south. Ahead the sea
was blind dark but on the left the fires of shore still flickered, now
perhaps even brighter than he had remembered them. Then he realized a
cloud had drifted momentarily over the moon, and he told himself this
was why. The pilot held the whipstaff on a steady course.
"I'd reef the foresail a notch, Cap'n, and ease her two points
to starboard. I'll lay a hundred sovereigns the current's chang'd on
us." Mackintosh ventured to break protocol and speak, his concern
growing.
I dinna like the feel of this, he told himself. We're driftin'
too fast. I can feel it.
"Eight fathoms, sir." The bosun's voice again cut the dark.
"Jesus, Cap'n," Mackintosh erupted. "Take her about. The pox-
rotted current's . .."
"She'll ride in three fathom. I've sailed the James, six hundred
ton, in less. Let her run." He turned to Elkington. "Ask the Moor how
much longer to the river mouth."
George Elkington turned and shot a stream of questions rapidly
at the pilot, whose eyes glazed in his partial comprehension. He shook
his head in a way that seemed to mean both yes and no simultaneously
and then pointed into the dark and shrugged, emitting fragments of
Portuguese.
"_Em frente Sahib. Diretamente em frente._"
Then he gestured toward the waist of the ship and seemed to
be asking the depth reading.
As though in answer, the bosun's voice came again, trembling.
"Five fathom, Cap'n, and still dropping."
"Cinco." Elkington translated, but his concerned tone was
a question. What does it mean?
The pilot shouted an alarm in Gujarati and threw his fragile weight
against the whipstaff. The _Resolve_ pitched and shuddered, groaning
like some mourning animal at tether, but it no longer seemed to respond
to the rudder.
Kerridge glared at the pilot in dismay.
"Tell the blathering heathen steady as she goes. She'll take--"
The deck tipped crazily sideways, and a low grind seemed to pass up
through its timbers. Then the whipstaff kicked to port, strained
against its rope, and with a snap from somewhere below, drifted free.
The _Resolve _careened dangerously into the wind, while a wave caught
the waist of the ship and swept the bosun and his sounding line into
the dark.
"Whorin' Mary, Mother of God, we've lost the rudder." Mackintosh lunged
down the companionway toward the main deck, drawing a heavy knife from
his belt. As the frightened seamen clung to the tilting deck and braced
themselves against the shrouds, he began slashing the lines securing
the main sail.
Another wave seemed to catch the _Resolve_ somewhere beneath her stern
quarter gallery and lifted her again. She poised in midair for a long
moment, then groaned farther into the sand. As the frigate tipped,
Mackintosh felt a rumble from the deck below and at that instant he
knew with perfect certainty the _Resolve _was doomed to go down. A
cannon had snapped its securing lines and jumped its blocks. He grabbed
a shroud and braced himself.
Then it came, the muffled sound of splintering as the cannon bore
directly through the hull, well below the waterline of the heeling
frigate.
"Takin' water in the hold." A frightened shout trailed out through the
scuttles.
The seamen on decks still clung to the shrouds, wedging themselves
against the gunwales.
"Man the pumps in the well, you fatherless pimps." Mackintosh shouted
at the paralyzed seamen, knowing it was already too late, and then he
began to sever the moorings of the longboat lashed to the mainmast.
Elkington was clinging to the lateen mast, winding a safety line about
his waist and bellowing unintelligible instructions into the dark for
hoisting the chests of silver bullion from the hold.
No one on the quarterdeck had noticed when its railing splintered,
sending Captain Kerridge and the Indian pilot into the dark sea.
"The strumpet luck seems to have switched her men tonight, Captain
Hawksworth, like a _nautch_ girl when her _karwa_'s rupees are spent."
Mirza Nuruddin signaled for his hookah to be relighted. He had just
thrown another row of three sixes, and was now near to taking the
seventh game, giving him six to Hawksworth's one. All betting on
Hawksworth had stopped after the fourth game. "But the infinite will of
God is always mysterious, mercifully granting us what we need more
often than what we want."
Hawksworth had studied the last throw carefully, through the haze of
brandy, and he suddenly realized Mirza Nuruddin had been cheating.
By Jesus, the dice are weighted. He sets them up somehow in the cup,
then slides them quickly across the carpet. Damn me if he's not a
thief. But why bother to cheat me? I only laid five sovereigns on the
game.
He pushed aside the confusion and reflected again on the astounding
genius who sat before him now, cheating at dice.
His plan was masterful. Host a gathering for the captains at the bar
the night we will unload. Even the Portuguese. No one in command of a
ship will be at the river mouth, no one who could possibly interfere.
All our wool's already been unladed and brought overland to Surat. Then
we transferred the ironwork and lead on the _Discovery _to the
_Resolve_. So all the lead and ironwork in cargo will be unladed by
moonlight tonight and on its way upriver by morning, before the
Portugals here even sleep off their liquor.
And the _Resolve _will be underway again by dawn, back to Swalley with
no one to challenge her. Not even the Portuguese trading frigatta, with
their laughable eight-pound stern chasers. The _Discovery _is almost
laded with cotton. Another couple of days should finish her. And then
the _Resolve_. Another two week at most, and they'll be underway.
The East India Company, the Worshipful damned East India Company, will
earn a fortune on this voyage. And a certain captain named Brian
Hawksworth will be toasted the length of Cheapside as the man who did
what Lancaster couldn't. The man who sent the East India Company's
frigates home with a cargo of the cheapest pepper in history. The
Butterbox Hollanders will be buying pepper from the East India Company
next year and cursing Captain Brian Hawksworth.
Or will it be Sir Brian Hawksworth?
He tried the name on his tongue as he swirled the dice for one last
throw. This time he tried to duplicate the Shahbandar's technique.
Easy swirls and then just let them slide onto the carpet as you make
some distracting remark.
"Perhaps it's Allah's will that a man make his own luck. Is that
written somewhere?" The dice slid onto the carpet and Hawksworth
reached for his brandy.
Three sixes.
Mirza Nuruddin studied the three ivories indifferently as he drew on
his hookah. But traces of a smile showed at the corner of his lips and
his foggy eyes sparkled for an instant.
"You see, Captain Hawksworth, you never know the hand of fortune till
you play to the end." He motioned to a servant. "Refresh the English
captain's glass. I think he's starting to learn our game."
The longboat scraped crazily across the deck and into the surf. Then
another wave washed over the deck, chilling the half-naked seamen who
struggled to secure the longboat's line. Two chests of silver bullion,
newly hoisted from the hold, were now wedged against the mainmast.
Elkington clung to their handles, shouting between waves for the seamen
to lower them into the longboat.
Mackintosh ignored him.
"Hoist the line to the poop. We'll board her from the stern gallery.
Take the longboat under and drop a ladder. You and you, Garway and
Davies, bring the line about, to the gallery rail."
The current tugged at the longboat, but its line held secure and the
seamen passed the end up the companionway and toward the stern gallery,
where the rope ladder was being played out.
"The longboat'll not take all the men and the silver. Blessed Jesus,
there's ten thousand pound sterling in these chests." Elkington gasped
as another wave washed over him, sending his hat into the surf. He
seized a running seaman by the neck and yanked him toward the chests.
"Take one end, you whoreson bastard, and help hoist it through the
companionway to the poop."
But the man twisted free and disappeared toward the stem. With an oath,
Elkington began dragging the chest across the deck and down the
companionway. By the time he reached the gallery, the ladder had
already been dropped into the longboat.
And five seamen were waiting with half-pikes.
"I'll send you to hell if you try loadin' that chest." Bosun's mate
John Garway held his pike in Elkington's face. "We'll all not make it
as 'tis."
Then Thomas Davies, acting on the thought in every man's mind, thrust
his pike through the lock hinge on the chest and wrenched it off with a
single powerful twist. "Who needs the money more, say I, the bleedin'
Worshipful Company, or a man who knows how to spend it?"
In moments a dozen hands had ripped away the lid of the chest, and
seamen began shoveling coins into their pockets. Elkington was pushed
sprawling into the companionway. Other seamen ran to begin rifling the
second chest. Silver spilled from their pockets as the men poured down
the swaying ladder into the longboat. As Elkington fought his way back
toward the stem, he took a long last look at the half-empty chests,
then began stuffing the pockets of his own doublet.
Mackintosh emerged from the Great Cabin holding the ship's log. As he
waited for the last seaman to board the longboat, he too lightened the
_Resolve _of a pocketful of silver.
With all men on board the longboat's gunwales rode a scant three inches
above waterline. Bailing began after the first wave washed over her.
Then they hoisted sail and began to row for the dark shore.
"Tonight you may have been luckier than you suppose, Captain
Hawksworth." The Shahbandar's fingers deftly counted the five
sovereigns through the leather pouch Hawksworth had handed him. Around
them the final side bets were being placed against the Portuguese
captain who would play Mirza Nuruddin next.
"It's hard to see how."
"For the price of a mere five sovereigns, Captain, you've learned a
truth some men fail to master in a lifetime." Mirza Nuruddin motioned
away the Portuguese captain, his doublet stained with wine, who waited
to take his place at the board. "I really must call the dancers now,
lest some of my old friends lose regard for our hospitality. I hope
you'll find them entertaining, Captain Hawksworth. If you've never seen
the _nautch_, you've yet to call yourself a man."
Hawksworth pulled himself up and thought about the river and slowly
worked his way through the crowd to the edge of the marble court. The
damp, chill air purged the torch smoke from his lungs and began to
sweep away the haze of brandy from his brain. He stared into the dark
and asked the winds if they knew of the _Resolve_.
Could it all have been a trap? What if he'd told the Portugals, and
they had warships waiting?
Without warning, the slow, almost reverent strains of a sarangi, the
Indian violin, stirred from the corner of the courtyard, and the crowd
shifted expectantly. Hawksworth turned to notice that a carpeted
platform had been erected directly in the center of the court, and as
he watched, a group of women, perhaps twenty, slowly began to mount
steps along its side. The torches had grown dim, but he could still see
enough to tell they all wore the veil of purdah and long skirts over
their trousers. As they moved chastely toward the center of the
platform he thought they looked remarkably like village women going to
a well, save they wore rows of tiny bells around their ankles and heavy
bangles on their wrists.
The air was rent by a burst of drumming, and the courtyard suddenly
flared as servants threw oil on the smoldering torches around the
balcony. At that instant, in a gesture of high drama, the women ripped
away their turquoise veils and flung them skyward. The crowd erupted in
a roar.
Hawksworth stared at the women in astonishment.
Their skirts, the skintight trousers beneath, and their short halters--
were all gossamer, completely transparent.
The dance was underway. Hips jerked spasmodically, in perfect time with
the drummer's accelerating, hypnotic rhythms--arching now to the side,
now suggestively forward. Hawksworth found himself exploring the
dancers' mask-like faces, all heavily painted and expressionless. Then
he watched their hands, which moved in sculptural arcs through a kind
of sign language certain Indians in the crowd seemed to know. Other
hand messages were understood by all, as the women stroked themselves
intimately, in what seemed almost a parody of sensuality. As the rhythm
continued to intensify, they begap to rip away their garments one by
one, beginning with their parted waist wraps. Next their halters were
thrown to the crowd, though their breasts had long since found release
from whatever minimal containment they might have known at the
beginning of the dance. Their earth-brown skin now glistened bare in
the perfumed torchlight.
The dance seemed to Hawksworth to go on and on, incredibly building to
ever more frantic levels of intensity. The drunken crowd swayed with
the women, its excitement and expectation swelling. Then at last the
women's trousers also were ripped away, leaving them adorned with only
bangles and reflecting jewels. Yet the dance continued still, as they
writhed onto their knees at the edge of the platform. Then slowly, as
though by some unseen hand, the platform lowered to the level of the
courtyard and they glided into the drunken crowd, thrusting breasts,
thighs, against the ecstatic onlookers. The cheers had grown deafening.
Hawksworth finally turned away and walked slowly down the embankment to
the river. There, in the first hint of dawn, bathers had begun to
assemble for Hindu prayers and a ritual morning bath. Among them were
young village girls, swathed head to foot in bright-colored wraps, who
descended one by one into the chilled water and began to modestly
change garments while they bathed, chastely coiling a fresh cloth
around themselves even as the other was removed.
They had never seemed more beautiful.
Hawksworth was standing on the steps of the maidan when the sail of the
English longboat showed at the turn of the river. News of the shipwreck
had reached Surat by village runner an hour after sunup, and barks had
already been sent to try to recover the remaining silver before the
ship broke apart. The frigate was reportedly no more than a thousand
yards off the coast, and all the men, even Kerridge, the bosun, and the
pilot, had been safely carried ashore by the current.
Hawksworth watched the longboat's sail being lowered in preparation for
landing and tried to think over his next step, how to minimize the
delay and loss.
We can't risk staying on past another day or two, not with only one
vessel. If we're caught at anchor in the cove, there's nothing one ship
can do. The Portugals can send in fireships and there'll be no way to
sink them with crossfire. The _Discovery _has to sail immediately.
We've enough cotton laded now to fill the hold with pepper in Java.
Damn Kerridge. Why was he steering so close to shore? Didn't he realize
there'd be a current?
Or was it the pilot?
Were we steered into this disaster on the orders of our new friend
Mirza Nuruddin? Has he been playing false with us all along, only
claiming to help us stay clear of the Portugals? By the looks of the
traders on the _maidan_ this morning I can tell they all think we were
played for fools.
He tried to remember all the Shahbandar had said the night before,
particularly the remarks he had not understood, but now the evening
seemed swallowed in a fog of brandy.
But the game, he finally realized, had been more than a game.
"The voyage will be lucky to break even now." George Elkington slid
from the back of the sweating porter and collapsed heavily on the stone
steps. "The _Resolve _was old, but 'twill take forty thousand pound to
replace her."
"What do you plan to do?" Hawksworth eyed Kerridge as he mounted the
steps, his doublet unrecognizable under the smeared mud, and decided to
ignore him.
"Not a damn'd thing we can do now, save lade the last of the cotton and
some indigo on the _Discovery_ and weigh anchor. And day after
tomorrow's not too soon, by my thinkin'." Elkington examined Hawksworth
and silently cursed him. He still had not swallowed his disbelief when
Hawksworth had announced, only three days before, that he planned to
leave the ships and travel to Agra with a letter from King James.
"The Shahbandar has asked to meet with you." Hawksworth motioned to
Elkington as the last seaman climbed over the side of the longboat and
onto the back of a waiting porter. "We may as well go in."
A crowd of the curious swarmed about them as they made their way across
the _maidan_ and through the customs house. Mirza Nuruddin was waiting
on his bolster.
"Captain, my sincere condolences to you and to Mr. Elkington. Please be
sure that worthless pilot will never work out of this port again. I
cannot believe he was at fault, but he'll be dealt with nonetheless."
Which is partially true, Mirza Nuruddin told himself, since my cousin
Muhammad Haidar, _nakuda _of the Rahimi, will take him on the pilgrim
ship for the next Aden run, and allow him to work there until his
reputation is repaired. "You were fortunate, at least, that the largest
part of her cargo had already been unladed."
Elkington listened to Hawksworth's translation, his face growing ever
more florid. "'Twas the damned pilot's knavery. Tell him I'd see him
hanged if this was England."
Mirza Nuruddin listened, then sighed. "Perhaps the pilot was at fault,
perhaps not. I don't quite know whose story to believe. But you should
know that in India only the Moghul can impose the death penalty. This
matter of the pilot is past saving, however. It's best we move on. So
tell me, what do you propose to do now?"
"Settle our accounts, weigh anchor, and be gone." Elkington bristled.
"But you've not heard the last o' the East India Company, I'll warrant
you. We'll be back with a fleet soon enough, and next time we'll do our
own hirin' of a pilot."
"As you wish. I'll have our accountants total your invoices." Mirza
Nuruddin face did not change as he heard the translation, but his
spirit exulted.
It worked! They'll be well at sea within the week, days before the
Portuguese warships arrive. Not even that genius of intrigue Mukarrab
Khan will know I planned it all. And by saving these greedy English
from certain disaster, I've lured to our seas the only Europeans with
the spirit to drive out the Portuguese forever, after a century of
humiliation.
India's historic tradition of free trade, the Shahbandar had often
thought, had also brought her undoing. Open-handed to all who came to
buy and sell, India had thrived since the beginning of time. Until the
Portuguese came.
In those forgotten days huge single-masted arks, vast as eight hundred
tons, freely plied the length of the Arabian Sea. From Mecca's Jidda
they came, groaning with the gold, silver, copper, wool, and brocades
of Italy, Greece, Damascus, or with the pearls, horses, silks of Persia
and Afghanistan. They put in at India's northern port of Cambay, where
they laded India's prized cotton, or sailed farther south, to India's
port of Calicut, where they bargained for the hard black pepper of
India's Malabar Coast, for ginger and cinnamon from Ceylon. India's own
merchants sailed eastward, to the Moluccas, where they bought silks and
porcelains from Chinese traders, or cloves, nutmeg, and mace from the
islanders. India's ports linked China on the east with Europe on the
west, and touched all that moved between. The Arabian Sea was free as
the air, and the richest traders who sailed it prayed to Allah, the One
True God.
Then, a hundred years ago, the Portuguese came. They seized strategic
ocean outlooks from the mouth of the Persian Gulf to the coast of
China. On these they built strongholds, forts to control not the lands
of Asia, but its seas. And if no man could remember the centuries of
freedom, today all knew well the simple device that held the Arabian
Sea in bondage. It was a small slip of paper, on which was the
signature of a Portuguese governor or the captain of a Portuguese fort.
Today no vessel, not even the smallest bark, dared venture the Arabian
Sea without a Portuguese _cartaz_. This hated license must name the
captain of a vessel and verify its tonnage, its cargo, its crew, its
destination, and its armament. Vessels could trade only at ports
controlled or approved by the Portuguese, where they must pay a duty of
8 percent on all cargo in and out. Indian and Arab vessels no longer
could carry spices, pepper, copper, or iron--the richest cargo and now
the monopoly of Portuguese shippers.
An Indian vessel caught at sea without a _cartaz_, or steering south
when its stated destination was north, was confiscated; its captain and
crew were executed immediately, if they were lucky, or sent to the
galleys if they were not. Fleets of armed galleons cruised the
coastlines in patrol. If a vessel gave cause for suspicion, Portuguese
soldiers boarded her in full battle dress, with naked swords and battle
cries of "Santiago." And while their commander inspected the ship's
_cartaz_, Portuguese soldiers relieved passengers of any jewelry
salable in the streets of Goa. _Cartaz_ enforcement was strict, and--
since a percentage of all seized cargo went to captains and crews of
patrol galleons--enthusiastic. The seas off India were theirs by right,
the Portuguese liked to explain, because they were the first ever to
have the ingenuity to make claim to them.
The revenues the _cartaz _brought Portugal were immense--not because it
was expensive to obtain, it cost only a few rupees, but because it
funneled every ounce of commodity traded in the Arabian Sea through a
Portuguese tax port.
And it is the Portuguese taxes, Mirza Nuruddin told himself, not just
their galleons, that the English will one day drive from our ports. And
on that day, our merchant ships will again lade the best cargo, sail
the richest routes, return with the boldest profits.
"There seems nothing further then, Mr. Elkington, I can do for you."
The Shahbandar smiled and bowed his small, ceremonial salaam. "Save
wish you a fair wind and Allah's blessing."
So it's over, Hawksworth thought as they turned to leave, the last time
I'll ever see you, and thank you very much, you unscrupulous deceiving
son of a whore.
"Captain Hawksworth, perhaps you and I can share a further word. You
are not, as I understand, planning to depart India. At least not
immediately. I'd like you always to know my modest offices remain at
your behest."
Elkington paused, as did Hawksworth, but one of the Shahbandar's
officials took the merchant's arm and urged him firmly toward the door
of the chamber. Too firmly, Hawksworth thought.
"I think you've done about all for us you can." Hawksworth made no
attempt to strain the irony from his voice.
"Be that as it may, I've heard rumors that your trip to Agra may be
approved. Should that happen, you must know you cannot travel alone,
Captain. No man in India is that foolhardy. The roads here are no more
safe than those, so I hear, in Europe. All travelers inland need a
guide, and an armed escort."
"Are you proposing to help me secure a guide? Equal in competence, may
I presume, to the pilot you hired for the _Resolve_?"
"Captain Hawksworth, please. God's will is mysterious." He sighed. "No
man can thwart mischance if it is his destiny. Hear me out. I have just
learned there's currently a man in Surat who knows the road to
Burhanpur like his own sword handle. In fact, he only just arrived from
the east, and I understand he expects to return when his affairs here,
apparently brief, are _Resolve_d. By a fortuitous coincidence he
happens to have an armed escort of guards with him. I suggest it might
be wise to attempt to engage him while you still have a chance."
"And who is this man?"
"A Rajput captain with the army. A soldier of no small reputation, I
can assure you. His name is Vasant Rao."
Mukarrab Khan reread the order carefully, scrutinized the black ink
seal at the top of the page to assure himself it was indeed the
Moghul's, and then placed it aside. So at last it had come. The
prospect of English presents was too great a temptation for the
acquisitive Arangbar, ever anxious for new baubles. The Englishman
would be going to Agra. No one at court could have prevented it.
But that road--east through bandit-infested Chopda to now-threatened
Burhanpur, then north, the long road through Mandu, Ujjain, and Gwalior
to Agra--was a journey of two hard months. The Moghul's seal meant less
than nothing to highwaymen, or to servants and drivers whose loyalties
were always for sale. It's a long road, Englishman, and mishaps on that
road are common as summer mildew.
He smiled to himself and took up the other silver-trimmed bamboo tube.
It had arrived by the same runner. The date on the outside was one week
old.
It always amazed Mukarrab Khan that India's runners, the Mewras, were
actually swifter than post horses. This message had traveled the three
hundred _kos _south from Agra to Burhanpur and then the remaining
hundred and fifty _kos _west to Surat--a combined distance of almost
seven hundred English miles--in only seven days.
Runners were stationed at posts spaced five _kos _apart along the great
road that Akman had built to link Agra to the seaport of Surat. They
wore an identifying plume at their head and two bells at their belt,
and they gained energy by eating _postibangh_, a mixture of opium and
hemp extract. Akman even conceived of lining the sides of the road
with white stones so his Mewras could run in darkest midnight without
lanterns. There were now some four thousand runners stationed along
India's five main arteries.
The only things swifter, Mukarrab Khan had often told himself, are
lightning . . . and a blue, white-throated Rath pigeon. A distance
requiring a full day for a runner could be covered by a pigeon in one
_pahar_, three hours, given good weather. Arangbar kept pigeons all
over India, even in Surat--but then so did everyone else at court.
Recently, it seemed, everyone was training pigeons.
Next to the date was the seal of Nadir Sharif, prime minister and
brother of the queen. Mukarrab Khan knew Nadir Sharif well. A dispatch
from Nadir Sharif, though it always reflected the wishes of the Moghul
or the queen, could be relied upon to be reasonable. If the Moghul in
fury condemned a man over some trivial transgression, Nadir Sharif
always forgot to deliver the sentence until the next day, having found
that Arangbar often tended to reverse sentences of death when musing in
his evening wine cups. This order will be reasonable, Mukarrab Khan
told himself, but it will have to be obeyed, eventually.
As always, Mukarrab Khan tried to guess the message before unsealing
the two-inch-long silver cap attached to the end of the tube. Probably
taxes, late delivery. Or perhaps there's been a discrepancy between the
open report filed from my chamber by the wakianavis, the public
reportefs, and the private report, which I supposedly do not see, sent
directly to the Moghul by the harkaras, the confidential reporters. And
if that's the complaint, it will disprove my suspicion that no one in
the Imperial chancery ever actually reads the reports. I deliberately
inserted a difference of one-half lakh of rupees as reported logged at
the mint last month, just to see if they would catch it.
Mukarrab Khan unrolled the dispatch. And his heart stopped.
Clasping the paper he wandered distractedly out of the now-empty
audience hall and down the stairs toward the courtyard. When he reached
the veranda he only half-noted the heavy clouds threatening in the
west, toward the sea, and the moist air promising one last spatter of
the monsoon. Servants were removing the tapestried canopy that shaded
his cushioned bench, and when they saw him they discreetly melted out
of sight, leaving one side of the cloth still dangling from the poles.
He dropped heavily onto the bench and reread the order carefully, his
disbelief growing.
On the recommendation of Queen Janahara, Mukarrab Khan had just been
appointed India's first ambassador to Portuguese Goa. He would leave in
two weeks.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The moon was high, bathing the sleeping veranda in a wash of
glistening silver, and the air was deliciously moist, heavy with
perfume from the garden below. From somewhere among the distant
rooftops came the thread of a man's voice, intoning a high-pitched
melody, trilling out wordless syllables like some intense poetry of
sound.
Hawksworth leaned back against one of the carved juniper-wood posts
supporting the canopy above his sleeping couch and explored Kali's body
with his gaze, as a mariner might search a map for unknown islands and
inlets. She lounged opposite him, resting against an oblong velvet
bolster, examining him with half-shut eyes while she drew contentedly
on a hookah fired with black tobacco and a concentrated _bhang _the
Arabs called _hashish_.
Her hair hung loose, in gleaming black strands reaching almost to her
waist, and her head was circled by a thin tiara of gold and pearls,
supporting the large green emerald that always hung suspended in the
center of her forehead--even when she made love. The gold she wore--long
bracelets at her wrists and upper arms, swinging earrings, even tiny
bells at her ankles--seemed to excite her in a way Hawksworth could
never understand. Her eyes and eyebrows were kohl-darkened and her lips
carefully painted a deep red, matching the color of her fingernails and
toenails. And as always she had dyed her palms and the soles of her
feet red with henna. Four different strands of pearls hung in perfect
array beneath her transparent blouse, glistening white against her
delicate, amber-tinted skin. He noticed, too, that her nipples had been
rouged, and told himself this was the only thing about her that
recalled the women in London.
"Tonight your thoughts were far away, my love. Do you weary of me so
soon?" She laid aside the _rome-chauri_, the rubber ring impregnated
with powdered hair that she often asked him to wear for her, then took
a vial of rose attar from beside the couch and dabbed herself absently
along the arms. "Tell me the truth. Are you now beginning to recoil
from women, like so many bragging and posturing men I've known, and to
long for a boy who fears to seek his own pleasure? Or a subservient
_feringhi _woman whose parts are dry from lack of desire?"
Hawksworth studied her for a moment without replying. In truth he did
not know what to say. Your nightly visits to this couch have been the
most astonishing experience of my life. To imagine I once thought being
with the same woman night after night would eventually grow monotonous.
But you always come here as someone different, always with something
new. You play on my senses like an instrument--with touch, with scent,
with tongue. Until they seem to merge with my mind. Or is it the
reverse? But you're right when you say the mind must surrender itself
first. When that's done, when the mind is given up to the body, then
you somehow forget your own self and think only of the other. And
eventually there grows a union of pleasure, a bond that's intense,
overwhelming.
But tonight he could not repress his vagrant mind. His feeling of
failure churned too deep. It had stolen his spirit.
Day after tomorrow the _Discovery_ weighs anchor, he told himself, with
half the cargo we'd planned and twice the men she needs, while the
_Resolve_ slowly breaks apart on a sandbar. I've failed the Company . .
. and myself. And there's nothing that can be done. Kali, dear Kali.
The woman I really want to be with tonight is Shirin. Why can't I drive
her from my mind? Half the time when you're in my arms, I pretend
you're her. Do you sense that too?
"I'm sorry. I'm not myself tonight." You're right as always,
he marveled, the mind and the body are one. As he paused, the singer's
voice cut the stillness between them. "How did you know?"
"It's my duty as your courtesan to feel your moods. And to try
to lift the weight of the world from your heart."
"You do it very well. It's just that sometimes there's too much
to lift." He studied her, wondering what she was really thinking, then
leaned back and looked at the stars. "Tell me, what do you do when the
world weighs on you!"
"That's never your worry, my love. I'm here to think of you,
not you of me."
"Tell me anyway. Say it's a _feringhi's_ curiosity."
"What do I do?" She smiled wistfully and drew again on the
hookah, sending a tiny gurgle into the quiet. "I escape with _bhang_.
And I remember when I was in Agra, in the _zenana_."
She lay aside the mouthpiece of the hookah and began to roll
betel leaves for them both, carefully measuring in a portion of nutmeg,
her favorite aphrodisiac.
"Tell me how you came to be here, away from Agra."
"Is it really me you wish to hear about?" She looked at him
squarely, her voice quiet. "Or is it Shirin?"
"You," Hawksworth lied, and absently stroked the edge of her
foot, where the henna line began. Then he looked into her dark eyes and
he knew she knew.
"Will we make love again if I tell you?"
"Possibly."
"I know how to make you keep your promise." She took his toe in
her mouth and brushed it playfully with her tongue before biting it,
ever so lightly. "So I will tell you anything you want to know."
He scarcely knew where to start.
"What was it about the harem, the _zenana_, that you liked so much?"
She sighed. "We had everything there. Wine and sweet
_bhang_. And we bribed the eunuchs to bring us opium and nutmeg and
tobacco. We could wear tight trousers, which none of the women here in
Surat dare for fear the mullahs will condemn them." As she spoke, her
eyes grew distant. "We wore jewels the way women in Surat wear scarves.
And silks from China the way they wear their dreary cotton here. There
was always music, dance, pigeon-flying. And we had all the perfumes--
musk, scented oil, attar of rose--we could want. The Moghul had melons
brought by runner from Kabul, pomegranates and pears from Samarkand,
apples from Kashmir, pineapples from Goa." She remembered herself and
reached to place a rolled betel leaf in his mouth. "About the
only thing we weren't supposed to have was cucumbers . . ." She giggled
and took a betel leaf for herself. "I think His Majesty was afraid he
might suffer in comparison. But we bribed the eunuchs and got them
anyway. And we also pleasured each other."
Hawksworth studied her, not quite sure whether to believe it all. "I've
heard the harems of the Turks in the Levant are said to be like some
sort of prison. Was it like that?"
"Not at all." She smiled easily. A bit too easily, he thought. "We used
to take trips to the countryside, or even go with His Majesty when he
went to Kashmir in the hot summer. In a way we were freer than the poor
third wife of some stingy merchant."
"But weren't you always under guard?"
"Of course. You know the word 'harem' is actually Arabic for 'forbidden
sanctuary.' Here we call it by the Persian name _zenana_, but it's
still the same. It's really a city of women. All cities must have
guards. But we each received a salary and were like government
officials, with our own servants. We each had our own apartment,
immense and decorated with paintings and bubbling fountains at the
door. Except there were no doors, since we were always supposed to be
open to receive His Majesty."
"Wasn't there anything about it you didn't like?" He examined her
skeptically. "It seems to me I could list a few drawbacks."
"A few things. I didn't like the intrigues. All the women
scheming how to lure His Majesty to their apartment, and giving him
aphrodisiacs to try to prolong his time there. The beautiful ones were
constantly afraid of being poisoned, or spied on by the older women and
the female slaves. And some of the women were always trying to bribe
eunuchs to bring in young men disguised as serving-women." She took the
stem of a flower and began to weave it between his toes. "But there are
always intrigues anywhere. It's the price we pay for life."
"You've never told me how you came to be in the _zenana _in the first
place. Were you bought, the way women are in the Levant?"
Kali burst into laughter. "_Feringhis_ can be such simpletons
sometimes. What wonderful legends must be told in this place called
Europe." Then she sobered. "I was there because my mother was very
clever. The _zenana_ is powerful, and she did everything she could to
get me there. She knew if His Majesty liked me, there could be a good
post for my father. She planned it for years. And when I finally
reached fifteen she took me to the annual mina bazaar that Arangbar
always holds on the Persian New Year, just like his father Akman did."
"What's that?"
"It's a mock 'bazaar' held on the grounds of the palace, and only women
can go. Anyone who wants to be seen by His Majesty sets up a stall,
made of silk and gauze, and pretends to sell handiwork, things like
lace and perfume. But no woman can get in who isn't beautiful."
"Was that where the Moghul first saw you?"
"Of course. Arangbar came to visit all the stalls, riding around on a
litter that some Tartar women from the _zenana _carried, surrounded by
his eunuchs. He would pretend to bargain for the handiwork, calling the
women pretty thieves, but he was really inspecting them, and the
daughters they'd brought. I was there with my mother, and I wore a thin
silk blouse because my breasts were lovely." She paused and looked at
him hopefully, brushing a red-tipped finger across one nipple. "Don't
you think they still are? A little?"
"Everything about you is beautiful." It was all too true. As
he looked at her, he told himself he much preferred her now to how she
must have looked at fifteen.
"Well, I suppose Arangbar must have thought so too, because the next
day he sent a broker to pay my mother to let me come to the _zenana_."
Hawksworth paused, then forced nonchalance into his voice. "Did Shirin,
or her mother, do the same?"
"Of course not." Kali seemed appalled at the absurdity of the idea.
"She's Persian. Her father was already some kind of official. He was
far too dignified to allow his women to go to the mina bazaar. The
Moghul must have seen her somewhere else. But if he wanted her, her
father could not refuse."
"What eventually happened to you . . . and to her?"
"She became his favorite." Kali took out her betel leaf and tossed it
aside. "That's always very dangerous. She was in great trouble after
the queen came to Agra."
"I've heard something about that." He found himself wanting to hear a
lot more about it, but he held back. "And what happened to you after
you entered the _zenana_?"
"His Majesty only came to me once, as was his duty." She laughed but
there was no mirth in her voice. "Remember I was only fifteen then. I
knew nothing about lovemaking, though I tried very hard to please him.
But by that time he was already entranced with Shirin. He began to call
for her almost every afternoon."
"So what did you do after that?"
"I began to make love to the other women there. I suppose it sounds
strange to you, but I found I actually enjoyed other women's bodies
very much."
"Weren't you ever lonely?"
"A little. But I'm lonely here sometimes too." She paused and looked
away. "A courtesan is always lonely. No man will ever truly love her.
He'll listen to her sing to him and joke with him, but his heart will
never be hers, regardless of all the sweet promises he'll think to make
her."
Hawksworth watched her quickly mask the sadness in her eyes as she
reached for the hookah. At that moment he wanted more than anything in
the world to tell her it wasn't always true, but he knew she would hate
the lie. Instead he took out his own betel leaf and cleared his throat
awkwardly.
"You've never told me how you came to be called Kali. Mukarrab Khan
said that's not your real name."
She looked at him and her eyes became ice. "He's a truly vicious man.
What did he say?"
"That you would tell me." He paused, bewildered. "Don't you want to?"
She wiped her eyes with a quick motion. "Why not? You may as well know.
Before someone else tells you. But please try to understand I was very
lonely. You can't know how lonely it becomes in the _zenana_. How you
long for a man to touch you, just once. You can't imagine. After a
while you become . . . sort of mad. It becomes your obsession. Can you
understand? Even a little?"
"I've seen men at sea for months at a time. I could tell you a few
stories about that that might shock you."
She laughed. "Nothing, absolutely nothing, shocks me any more. But now
I'll shock you. There was this beautiful eunuch who guarded the
_zenana_ at night. He was Abyssinian, very tall and striking, and he
was named Abnus because he was the color of ebony. He was truly
exquisite."
"A eunuch?" Hawksworth stared at her, disbelieving. "I always thought .
. ."
She stopped him. "I probably know what you always thought. But eunuchs
are not all the same. The Bengali eunuchs like Mukarrab Khan has were
sold by their parents when they were very young, and they've had
everything cut away with a razor. Muslim merchants buy boys in Bengal
and take them to Egypt, where Coptic monks specialize in the operation.
That's the type called _sandali_. They even have to pass water through
a straw. But the operation is so dangerous few of the boys live, so
they're very expensive. Abnus had been sent to His Majesty as a gift
from some Arab merchant, who was so stingy he simply crushed the
testicles of one of his grown slaves instead of buying a Bengali boy.
No one realized Abnus could still do almost everything any man can do.
It was our secret."
"So you made love to a eunuch?" Hawksworth found
himself incredulous.
Kali smiled and nodded. "Then one day our Kashmiri ward servant entered
my apartment unannounced. She had suspected us. I didn't know until
that moment she was a spy for the palace." She stopped and a small
shiver seemed to pass through her. "We were both condemned to death. I
didn't care. I didn't want to live anyway. He was killed the next day,
left on a pike to die in the sun."
Kali paused and her lips quivered slightly. Then she continued. "I was
buried up to the neck in the courtyard. To watch him die. Then, in late
afternoon some Imperial guards came and uncovered me. And they took me
back into the palace. I was delirious. They took me into this room, and
there she was."
"Who?"
"Queen Janahara. She offered me a chance to live. I didn't know what I
was doing, where I was, anything. Before I thought I'd already agreed."
At last a tear came. "And I've never told anyone. I'm so ashamed." She
wiped her eyes and stiffened. "But I've never done what I told her I
would do. Not once."
"What was that?"
Kali looked at him and laughed. "To come here with Mukarrab Khan. And
spy on Shirin. So now and then I just send some silly nonsense to Her
Majesty. I know what Shirin is doing . . . and I admire her for it."
Hawksworth tried to keep his voice even. "What exactly is it she's
doing?"
Kali stopped abruptly and stared at him. "That's the one thing I can't
tell you. But I will tell you that I'm now also supposed to be spying
on you too, for Khan Sahib." She laughed again. "But you never say
anything for me to report."
Hawksworth found himself stunned. Before he could speak, she continued.
"But you asked about my name. It's probably the real reason I despise
Janahara so much. Before, I was named Mira. My father was Hakim Ali,
and he came to India from Arabia back when Akman was Moghul. But the
queen said I could never use those names again. She said that because
I'd caused Abnus' death, she was renaming me Kali, the name the Hindus
have for their bloodthirsty goddess of death and destruction. She said
it would remind me always of what I'd done. I hate the name."
"Then I'll call you Mira."
She took his hand and brushed it against her cheek. "It doesn't matter
now. Besides, I'll probably never see you again after tonight. Tomorrow
you'll be getting ready to leave for Agra. Khan Sahib told me I'm not
to come to you any more after this. I think he's very upset about
something that happened with your ships."
"I'm very upset about it too." Hawksworth studied her. "What exactly
did he say?"
"No, I've told you enough already. Too much." She pinched his toe.
"Now. You will keep your promise, my love. And then after tonight you
can forget me."
Hawksworth was watching her, entranced. "I'll never forget you."
She tried to smile. "Oh yes you will. I know men better than that. But
I'll always remember you. When a man and a woman share their bodies
with each other, a bond is made between them. It's never entirely
forgotten, at least by me. So tonight, our last night, I want you to
let me give you something of mine to keep."
She reached under the couch and withdrew a box, teakwood and trimmed in
gold. She placed it on the velvet tapestry between them.
"I've never shown this to a _feringhi_ before, but I want you to have
it. To make you remember me, at least for a while."
"I've never had a present from an Indian woman before." Hawksworth
carefully opened the box's gold latch. Inside was a book, bound in
leather and gilded, with exquisite calligraphy on its cover.
"It's called the Ananga-Ranga, the Pleasures of Women. It was written
over a hundred years ago by a Brahmin poet who called himself Kalyana
Mai. He wrote it in Sanskrit for his patron, the Viceroy of Gujarat,
the same province where you are now."
"But why are you giving it to me?" Hawksworth looked into her eyes.
"I'll remember you without a book. I promise."
"And I'll remember you. You've given me much pleasure. But there are
those in India who believe the union of man and woman should be more
than pleasure. The Hindus believe this union is an expression of all
the sacred forces of life. You know I'm not a Hindu. I'm a Muslim
courtesan. So for me lovemaking is only to give you pleasure. But I
want you to know there's still more, beyond what we've had together,
beyond my skills and knowledge. According to the Hindu teachings, the
union of male and female is a way to reach the divine nature. That's
why I want you to have this book. It describes the many different
orders of women, and tells how to share pleasure with each. It tells of
many things beyond what I know."
She took the leatherbound copy of the Ananga-Ranga and opened it to the
first page. The calligraphy was bold and sensuous.
"In this book Kalyana Mai explains that there are four orders of women.
The three highest orders he calls the Lotus Woman, the Art Woman, and
the Conch Woman. The rest he dismisses as Elephant Women."
Hawksworth took the book and examined its pages for a time. There were
many paintings, small colored miniatures of couples pleasuring one
another in postures that seemed astounding. Finally he mounted his
courage.
"Which 'order' of woman are you?"
"I think I must be the third order, the Conch Woman. The book says that
the Conch Woman delights in clothes, flowers, red ornaments. That she
is given to fits of amorous passion, which make her head and mind
confused, and at the moment of exquisite pleasure, she thrusts her
nails into the man's flesh. Have you ever noticed me do that?"
Hawksworth felt the scratches along his chest and smiled. Only in
India, he thought, could you make love so many ways, all kneeling
before a woman rather than lying with her. So she scratches you on the
chest.
"So far it sounds a bit like you."
"And it says the Conch Woman's love cleft, what the
Hindus call her yoni, is always moist with _kama salila_, the woman's
love seed. And its taste is salt. Does that also remind you of me?"
Hawksworth was startled with wry delight when he realized he actually
knew the answer. Something he'd never had the slightest desire to know
about a woman in England.
In England. Where baths were limited to the face, neck, hands, and
feet--and those only once every few weeks. Where women wore unwashed
petticoats and stays until they literally fell off. Where a member of
the peerage was recently quoted as complaining "the nobler parts are
never in this island washed by the women; they are left to be lathered
by the men."
But Kali was scrubbed and perfumed each day like a flower. And she had
taught him the pleasure in the taste of all her body.
"I guess that makes you a Conch Woman. But what are the others supposed
to be like?"
"Let me tell you what it says." She reached and took back the book.
"The next one, the Art Woman, has a voice like a peacock, and she
delights in singing and poetry. Her carnal desire may be less strong
than the Conch Woman, at least until she's properly aroused, but then
her _kama salila _is hot, with a perfume like honey. And it's abundant,
producing a sound with the act of union. She is sensuous, but for her
lovemaking is always a kind of art."
"Who would be an Art Woman?"
She looked at him and smiled wryly. "I think Shirin, the one who
fascinates you so much, may well be an Art Woman. But I don't know her
body well."
But I will, Hawksworth told himself. I'll know all of her. Somehow. I
swear it.
"And what about the Lotus Woman?"
"According to Kalyana Mai she's actually the highest order of woman.
She's a spiritual being, who loves to converse with teachers and Hindu
priests. She's always very beautiful, never dark, and her breasts are
full and high. Her _yoni _is like an opening lotus bud and her _kama
salila _is perfumed like a lily newly burst."
"And who would be a Lotus Woman?"
"The only one I've ever known for sure is in Agra now. She's a
classical dancer, a Hindu temple dancer. Her name is Kamala."
"I saw a few dancers recently. At the Shahbandar's estate house. In my
_feringhi_ opinion they weren't of a very high order."
"Those were _nautch_ girls, common whores. They degrade and debase the
classical dance of India for the purpose of enticing customers. Kamala
is nothing like them. She's a great artist. For her the dance, and
lovemaking, are a kind of worship of the Hindu gods. I don't entirely
understand it, but I could sense her power the one time I saw her
dance. When I saw her I began to believe what people say, that she
embodies the female principle, the divine female principle that defines
India for the Hindu people. Believe me when I tell you she's very
different from anyone here in Surat. She knows things that no one else
knows. People say they're explained in a very old book she has."
"How can there possibly be any more to know?" Hawksworth thought of the
hundreds of pleasure tricks Kali had taught him, delights unknown in
Europe. "What's left to put in this other book?"
"Her book is one I've never actually seen. I've only heard about it.
It's a sacred text of the Hindus', an ancient sutra, in which the union
of man and woman are shown to be a way of finding your own divine
natures, the God within you both. I'm told it's called the Kama Sutra,
the Scripture of Love and Pleasure."
Hawksworth found himself beginning to be overwhelmed. "Maybe we'd
better start with this book. What exactly does it say?"
"The Ananga-Ranga explains that each order of woman must be aroused,
must be awakened to her pleasure, in a different way. At different
times of day, with different caresses, different kinds of kisses and
scratches and bites, different words, different embraces during union.
It says if you learn to know women well, you will understand how to
give and receive the greatest enjoyment with each."
"Is it really so complicated?"
"Now you're starting to sound like some Muslim men I know, who lock
their women away and make love to boys, claiming women are insatiable.
With desires ten times stronger than those of a man. But they're
actually afraid of a woman, so they believe she's to be enjoyed quickly
and as little as possible. They care nothing for her own pleasure. But
a woman must be aroused to enjoy union to its fullest. That's why this
book is so important. I happen to think you are one who cares about a
woman's pleasure."
Hawksworth stroked her smooth leg mischievously, then took the book and
gently laid it aside. "Tell me what it says about a Conch Woman. What
have I been doing that's right and wrong?"
"The book says that the Conch Woman prefers union with a man in the
third _pahar_ of the night."
"When is that?"
"Time is counted in India by _pahar_. The day and the night are each
divided into four _pahars_. The first _pahar _of the night would be
between six and nine in the evening by _feringhi _time. The third
_pahar _would be your hours between midnight and three in the morning.
Is that not the very time I come to your couch?"
"That's convenient."
"It also says that on certain days of the moon, which it tells, the
Conch Woman particularly enjoys having her body pressed with the nails
of the man. Some days roughly, some days gently. And on certain days
the embrace must be forceful, on certain days gentle. There are many
special ways to touch and embrace a Conch Woman, and they are explained
here. Also there are certain ways of kissing her, of biting her, of
scratching her. For example, you may kiss her upper lip, or her lower
lip, or you may kiss her with your tongue only."
"And how am I supposed to be able to kiss you with my tongue only?"
Hawksworth cast a skeptical glance at the book.
"It's very easy." She smiled at him slyly. "Perhaps it's easier if I
show you."
She took his lower lip gently with the tips of her fingers, passed her
tongue over it slowly and languorously, and then suddenly nipped it
playfully. He started in surprise.
"There. You see there are many ways to please a woman, to kiss her, to
bite her, to scratch her. When you have become a true lover of women,
my strong _feringhi_, you will know them all."
Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably. "What next?"
"The book also tells of the bodies of women. Foolish men often do not
know these things, my love, but I think you are beginning to learn. It
tells that in the upper cleft of the _yoni _there's a small organ it
likens to a plantain-shoot sprouting from the ground. This is the seat
of pleasure in a woman, and when it is excited, her_ kama salila _flows
in profusion."
"And then?"
"When the woman is ready, you may both enjoy the act of union to its
fullest. And there are many, many ways this may be done. The book tells
of thirty-two. It is the great wisdom of Kalyana Mai that a woman must
have variety in her love couch. If she does not find this with one man,
she will seek others. It is the same with men, I think."
Hawksworth nodded noncommittally, not wishing to appear overly
enthusiastic.
"Finally, he tells the importance of a woman reaching her moment of
enjoyment. If she does not, she will be unsatisfied and may seek
pleasure elsewhere. In India, a woman is taught to signify this moment
by the _sitkrita_, the drawing in of breath between the closed teeth.
There are many different ways a woman may do this, but you will know,
my love."
"Enough of the book." He took it and replaced it in the box. "Somehow I
think I've already had a lot of its lessons."
"That was merely my duty to you. To be a new woman for you each night.
And I think you've learned well." She took the box and settled it
beside the couch. Then she laughed lightly. "But you still have a few
things to learn. Tonight, for our last time together, I will show you
the most erotic embrace I know." She examined him with her half-closed
eyes, and drew one last burst of smoke from the hookah. Then she
carefully positioned the large velvet bolster in the center of the
couch. "Are you capable of it?"
"Try me."
"Very well. But I must be deeply aroused to enjoy this fully. Come and
let me show you all the places you must bite."
The sun was directly overhead when Vasant Rao reined his iron-gray
stallion to a halt at the Abidjan Gate. Behind him, beyond the grove of
mango and tamarind trees, lay the stone reservoir of Surat. It was
almost a mile in circumference, and he had chosen its far bank as
campground for his Rajput guard. Accommodations in Surat were
nonexistent during the season, and although he could have cleared a
guest house with a single name, Prince Jadar, he had chosen to remain
inconspicuous.
Through the dark bamboo slats of the gate he could now see the
Englishman riding toward him, holding his Arabian mare at an easy pace.
Vasant Rao studied the gait carefully. He had learned he could always
judge the character of a man by observing that man's handling of a
mount. He casually stroked his moustache and judged Brian Hawksworth.
The Englishman is unpracticed, yet there's an unmistakable sense of
command about him. Not unlike the control the prince holds over a
horse. He handles the mare almost without her knowing it, forcing
discipline onto her natural gait. Perhaps our treacherous friend Mirza
Nuruddin was right. Perhaps the Englishman will suit our requirements.
Vasant Rao remembered that Jadar had been insistent on the point.
"The English captain must be a man of character and nerve, or he must
never reach Burhanpur. You need only be seen providing his guard as you
depart Surat. If he's weak, like a Christian, he will not serve our
needs."
The times ahead will be difficult enough, Vasant Rao told himself,
without having to worry about the Englishman. The prince has been
trapped in the south, and now there's news Inayat Latif and his troops
are being recalled to Agra from Bengal. The queen will soon have at her
right hand the most able general in the Moghul's army.
Vasant Rao turned his eyes from the Englishman to look again at his own
Rajput guard, and his pride in them restored his spirit. Only Rajputs
would have the courage to one day face the numerically superior troops
of Inayat Latif.
The origin of the warrior clans who called themselves Rajputs, "sons of
kings," was lost in legend. They had appeared mysteriously in western
India over half a millennium before the arrival of the Moghuls, and
they had royalty, and honor, in their blood. They had always demanded
to be known as Kshatriya, the ancient Hindu warrior caste.
The men, and women, of the warrior Kshatriya clans lived and died by
the sword, and maintained a timeless tradition of personal honor.
Theirs was a profession of arms, and they lived by rules of conduct
unvaried since India's epic age. A member of the warrior caste must
never turn his back in battle, must never strike with concealed
weapons. No warrior could strike a foe who was fleeing, who asked for
mercy, whose own sword was broken, who slept, who had lost his armor,
who was merely an onlooker, who was facing another foe. Surrender was
unthinkable. A Rajput defeated in battle need not return home, since
his wife would turn him out in dishonor for not having given his life.
But if a Rajput perished with a sword in his hand, the highest honor,
his wife would proudly follow him in death, joining his body on the
funeral pyre. And many times, in centuries past, Rajput women
themselves had taken up swords to defend the honor of their clain.
When they had no external foes, the Rajput clans warred among
themselves, since they knew no other life. For convenience, each clan
decreed its immediate neighboring clans its enemies, and an elaborate
code was devised to justify war over even the smallest slight. Their
martial skills were never allowed to gather rust, even if the cost was
perpetual slaughter of each other.
Though they were divided among themselves, the Rajput clans had for
centuries defended their lands from the Muslim invaders of India. Only
with the coming of the great Moghul genius Akman was there a Muslim
ruler with the wisdom to understand the Rajputs could be more valuable
as allies than as foes. He abandoned attempts to subdue them, instead
making them partners in his empire. He married Rajput princesses; and
he used Rajput fighting prowess to extend Moghul control south and west
in India.
The men with Vasant Rao were the elite of the dominant Chauhan clan,
and all claimed descent from royal blood. They held strong loyalties,
powerful beliefs, and absolutely no fear of what lay beyond death. They
also were men from the northwest mountains of India, who had never
before seen Surat, never before seen the sea, never before seen a
_feringhi_.
But Vasant Rao had seen _feringhi_, when he had stood by the side of
Prince Jadar in Agra, when Jesuit fathers had been called to dispute
with Muslim mullahs before Arangbar. He had seen their tight, assured
faces, and heard their narrow, intolerant views. Could this _feringhi
_be any different?
Already he had witnessed the Englishman's nerve, and it had reminded
him, curiously, of Jadar. The Englishman had refused to come to their
camp, claiming this demeaned his office of ambassador. And Vasant Rao,
representative of Prince Jadar, had refused to meet the Englishman
inside Surat. Finally it was agreed that they would meet at the wall of
the city, at the Abidjan Gate.
"Nimaste, Ambassador Hawksworth. His Highness, Prince Jadar, conveys
his most respectful greetings to you and to the English king." Vasant
Rao's Turki had been excellent since his boyhood, and he tried to
remember the phrases Mirza Nuruddin had coached. Then he watched
through the bamboo poles of the gate as Hawksworth performed a lordly
salaam from horseback.
The gate opened.
"I am pleased to offer my good offices to you and your king," Vasant
Rao continued, "in the name of His Highness, the prince. It is his
pleasure, and my honor, to provide you escort for your journey east to
Burhanpur. From there His Highness will arrange a further escort for
the trip north to Agra."
"His Majesty, King James, is honored by His Highness' concern."
Hawksworth examined the waiting Rajputs, his apprehension mounting.
Their eyes were expressionless beneath their leather helmets, but their
horses pawed impatiently. He found himself wondering if Mirza Nuruddin
had contrived to provide more "help," and yet another surprise. "But my
route is not yet decided. Although I'm grateful for His Highness'
offer, I'm not certain traveling east on the Burhanpur road is best.
His Excellency, Mukarrab Khan, has offered to provide an escort if I
take the Udaipur road, north past Cambay and then east."
Vasant Rao examined Hawksworth, choosing his words carefully. "We have
orders to remain here for three days, Captain, and then to return to
Burhanpur. It would be considered appropriate by the prince, who has
full authority to administer this province, if we rode escort for you."
Hawksworth shifted in the saddle.
This isn't an offer. It's an ultimatum.
"Is His Highness aware I have with me a large sea chest? It will
require a cart, which I plan to hire. Perhaps the delay this will
impose would inconvenience you and your men, since you surely prefer to
ride swiftly."
"On the contrary, Captain. We will have with us a small convoy of
supplies, lead for molding shot. We will travel at a pace that best
suits us all. Your chest presents no difficulty."
But there will be many difficulties, he told himself. And he thought
again about Mirza Nuruddin and the terms he had demanded. Twenty
percent interest on the loan, and only a hundred and eighty days to
repay both the new silver coin and the interest.
But why, Vasant Rao asked himself again, did the Shahbandar agree to
the plan at all? Is this Mirza Nuruddin's final wager? That Jadar will
win?
"Will three days be sufficient for your preparations, Captain
Hawksworth?"
"It will. If I decide to use the Burhanpur road." Hawksworth wondered
how long he could taunt the Raput.
"Perhaps I should tell you something about travel in India, Ambassador.
There are, as you say, two possible routes between Surat and Agra. Both
present certain risks. The northern route, through Udaipur and
Rajputana, is at first appearance faster, since the roads are drier and
the rivers there have already subsided from the monsoon. But it is not
a part of India where travelers are always welcomed by the local Rajput
clans. You may well find yourself in the middle of a local war, or the
reluctant guest of a petty raja who judges you worth a ransom.
"On the other hand, if you travel east, through Burhanpur, you may find
that some rivers are still heavy from the monsoon, at least for another
month. But the clans there are loyal to Prince Jadar, and only near
Chopda, halfway to Burhanpur, will you encounter any local brigands.
Theirs, however, is an honorable profession, and they are always
willing to accept bribes in return for safe passage. We ordinarily do
not kill them, though we easily could, since petty robbery--they view it
as a toll--is their livelihood and their tradition. They are weak and
they make weak demands. Such is not true of the rajas in Rajputana. The
choice is yours, but if you value your goods, and your life, you will
join us as we make our way east to Burhanpur."
Hawksworth studied the bearded Rajput guards as Vasant Rao spoke.
I'm either a captive of the prince or of Mukarrab Khan, regardless of
what I do. Which one wants me dead more?
"My frigate sails tomorrow. I can leave the following day."
"Good, it's agreed then. Our convoy will leave in three days. It will
be my pleasure to travel with you, Captain Hawksworth. Your reputation
has already reached His Highness. We will meet you here at the
beginning of the second _pahar_. I believe that's your hour of nine in
the morning." He smiled with a warmth that was almost genuine. "You
should consider yourself fortunate. Few _feringhi_ have ever traveled
inland. You will find the interior far different from Surat. Until
then."
He bowed lightly and snapped a command to the waiting horsemen. In
moments they were lost among the trees.
"This evening must be a time of farewell for us both, Captain
Hawksworth. You know, the Hindus believe life and death are an endless
cycle that dooms them to repeat their miserable existence over and over
again. I myself prefer to think that this one life is itself cyclical,
ever renewing. What was new, exciting, yesterday is today tedious and
tiresome. So tomorrow brings us both rebirth. For you it is Agra, for
me Goa. But I expect to see Surat again, as no doubt do you. Who knows
when our paths will cross once more?" Mukarrab Khan watched as a eunuch
shoved wide the door leading onto the torchlit garden. "You have been a
most gracious visitor, tolerating with exemplary forbearance my
unworthy hospitality. Tonight perhaps you will endure one last evening
of my company, even if I have little else left to offer."
The courtyard was a confused jumble of packing cases and household
goods. Servants were everywhere, wrapping and crating rolled carpets,
bolsters, furniture, vases, and women's clothing. Elephants stood near
the back of the courtyard, howdahs on their backs, waiting to be
loaded. Goods would be transferred to barks for the trip downriver to
the bar, where they would be loaded aboard a waiting Portuguese
frigate.
"My dining hall has been dismantled, its carpet rolled. We have no
choice but to dine this evening in the open air, like soldiers on the
march."
Hawksworth was no longer hearing Mukarrab Khan. He was staring past
him, through the smoke, not quite believing what he saw. But it was all
too real. Standing in the corner of the courtyard were two Europeans in
black cassocks. Portuguese Jesuits.
Mukarrab Khan noticed Hawksworth's diplomatic smile suddenly freeze on
his face, and turned to follow his gaze.
"Ah, I must introduce you. You do understand the Portuguese language,
Captain?"
"Enough."
"I should have thought so. I personally find it abominable and refuse
to study it. But both the fathers here have studied Persian in Goa, and
I think one of them knows a bit of Turki, from his time in Agra."
"What are they doing here?" Hawksworth tried to maintain his composure.
"They returned to Surat just today from Goa, where they've been these
past few weeks. I understand they're en route to the Jesuit mission in
Lahore, a city in the Punjab, well to the north of Agra. They
specifically asked to meet you." He laughed. "They're carrying no
cannon, Captain, and I assumed you had no objection."
"You assumed wrong. I have nothing to say to a Jesuit."
"You'll meet Jesuits enough in Agra, Captain, at the Moghul's court.
Consider this evening a foretaste." Mukarrab Khan tried to smile
politely, but there was a strained look in his eyes and he fingered his
jeweled ring uncomfortably. "You would favor me by speaking to them."
The two Europeans were now moving toward them, working their way
through the swarm of servants and crates in the courtyard. The ruby-
studded crucifixes they wore against their black cassocks seemed to
shoot red sparks into the evening air. Mukarrab Khan urged Hawksworth
forward apprehensively.
"May I have the pleasure to present Ambassador Brian Hawksworth, who
represents His Majesty, King James of England, and is also, I believe,
an official of England's East India Company.
"And to you, Ambassador, I have the honor to introduce Father Alvarez
Sarmento, Superior for the Society of Jesus' mission in Lahore, and
Father Francisco da Silva."
Hawksworth nodded lightly and examined them. Although Sarmento was
aged, his face remained strong and purposeful, with hard cheeks and
eyes that might burn through marble. The younger priest could not have
been more different. His ruddy neck bulged from the tight collar of his
cassock, and his eyes shifted uncomfortably behind his puffed cheeks.
Hawksworth wondered absently how long his bloat--too much capon and port
wine--would last if Mackintosh had him on the third watch for a month.
"You are a celebrated man, Captain Hawksworth." Father Sarmento spoke
in flawless Turki, but his voice was like ice. "There is much talk of
you in Goa. The new Viceroy himself requested that we meet you, and
convey a message."
"His last message was to order an unlawful attack on my merchantmen. I
think he still remembers my reply. Is he now offering to abide by the
treaty your Spanish king signed with King James?"
"That treaty has no force in Asia, Captain. His Excellency has asked us
to inform you that your mission to Agra will not succeed. Our fathers
have already informed the Moghul that England is a lawless nation
living outside the grace of the Church. Perhaps you are unaware of the
esteem he now holds for our Agra mission. We have a church there now,
and through it we have led many carnal-minded Moors to God. We have
refuted the Islamic mullahs in His Majesty's very presence, and shown
him the falsity of their Prophet and his laws. Indeed, it is only
because of the esteem we have earned that he now sends an ambassador to
the Portuguese Viceroy."
Before Hawksworth could respond, Father Sarmento suddenly reached out
and touched his arm imploringly. "Captain, let me speak now not for the
Viceroy, but for the Holy Church." Hawksworth realized with a shock
that he was speaking English. "Do you understand the importance of
God's work in this sea of damned souls? For decades we have toiled in
this vineyard, teaching the Grace of God and His Holy Church, and now
at last our prayers are near to answer. When Arangbar became Moghul,
our Third Mission had already been here for ten long, fruitless years.
We strove to teach the Grace of God to his father, Akman, but his
damnation was he could never accept a single True Church. He would
harken to a heathen fakir as readily as to a disciple of God. At first
Arangbar seemed like him, save his failing was not ecumenicity. It was
indifference, and suspicion. Now, after years of ignominy, we have
secured his trust. And with that trust will soon come his soul."
Sarmento paused to cross himself. "When at last a Christian holds the
throne of India, there will be rejoicing at the Throne of Heaven. You
may choose to live outside the Mystery of the Most Holy Sacrament, my
son, but surely you would not wish to undo God's great work. I implore
you not to go before the Moghul now, not to sow unrest in his believing
mind with stories of the quarrels and hatreds of Europe. England was
once in the bosom of the Holy Church, until your heretic King Henry;
and England had returned again, before your last, heretic queen led you
once more to damnation. Know the Church always stands with open heart
to receive you, or any apostate Lutheran, who wishes to repent and save
his immortal soul."
"I see now why Jesuits are made diplomats. Is your concern the loss of
the Moghul's soul, or the loss of his trade revenues in Goa?"
Hawksworth deliberately answered in Turki. "Tell your pope to stop
trying to meddle in England's politics, and tell your Viceroy to honor
our treaty and there'll be no 'quarrels' between us here."
"Will you believe my word, sworn before God, that I have told His
Excellency that very thing? That this new war could destroy our years
of work and prayer." Sarmento still spoke in English. "But he is a man
with a personal vendetta toward the English. It is our great tragedy.
The Viceroy of Goa, His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, is a man
nourished by hatred. May God forgive him."
Hawksworth stood speechless as Father Sarmento crossed himself.
"What did you say his name was?"
"Miguel Vaijantes. He was in Goa as a young captain, and now he has
returned as Viceroy. We must endure him for three more years. The
Antichrist himself could not have made our cup more bitter, could not
have given us a greater test of our Christian love. Do you understand
now why I beg you in God's name to halt this war between us?"
Hawksworth felt suddenly numb. He stumbled past the aged priest and
blindly stared into the torchlit courtyard, trying to remember
precisely what Roger Symmes had said that day so many years ago in the
offices of the Levant Company. One of the few things he had never
forgotten from Symmes's monologue of hallucinations and dreams was the
name Miguel Vaijantes.
Hawksworth slowly turned to face Father Sarmento and switched to
English.
"I will promise you this, Father. If I reach Agra, I will
never speak of popery unless asked. It honestly doesn't interest me.
I'm here on a mission, not a crusade. And in return I would ask one
favor of you. I would like you to send a message to Miguel Vaijantes.
Tell him that twenty years ago in Goa he once ordered the death of an
English captain named Hawksworth on the _strappado_. Tell him . . ."
The crash of shattering glass from the hallway of the palace severed
the air between them. Then the heavy bronze door swung wide and Shirin
emerged, grasping the broken base of a Chinese vase. Her eyes blazed
and her disheveled hair streamed out behind her. Hawksworth thought he
saw a stain on one cheek where a tear had trailed, but now that trail
was dry. She strode directly to Mukarrab Khan and dashed the remainder
of the vase at his feet, where it shattered to powder on the marble
tiles of the veranda.
"That is my gift to the queen. You may send it with a message in your
next dispatch. Tell her that I too am Persian, that I too know the name
of my father's father, of his father's father, of his father's father,
for ten generations. But unlike her, I was born in India. And it is in
India that I will stay. She can banish me to the remotest village of
the Punjab, but she will never send me to Goa. To live among unwashed
Portuguese. Never. She does not have the power. And if you were a man,
you would divorce me. Here. Tonight. For all to see. And I will return
to my father, or go where I wish. Or you may kill me, as you have
already tried to do. But you must decide."
Mukarrab Khan's face was lost in shock. The courtyard stood lifeless,
caught in a silence more powerful than any Hawksworth had ever known.
He looked in confusion at Father Sarmento, and the old Jesuit quietly
whispered a translation of the Persian, his own eyes wide in disbelief.
Never before had he seen a Muslim woman defy her husband publicly. The
humiliation was unthinkable. Mukarrab Khan had no power to order her
death. He had no choice but to divorce her as she demanded. But
everyone knew why she was his wife. What would a divorce mean?
"You will proceed to Goa as my wife, or you will spend the rest of your
days, and what little remains of your fading beauty, as a _nautch_ girl
at the port. Your price will be one copper _pice_. I will order it in
the morning."
"His Majesty will know of it within a week. I have friends enough in
Agra."
"As do I. And mine have the power to act."
"Then divorce me."
Mukarrab Khan paused painfully, then glanced down and absently whisked
a fleck of lint from his brocade sleeve. "Which form do you wish?"
An audible gasp passed through the servants, and not one breathed as
they waited for the answer. There were three forms of divorce for
Muslims. The first, called a revocable divorce, was performed when a
man said "I have divorced you" only once. He had three months to
reconsider and reconcile before it became final. The second form,
called irrevocable, required the phrase be repeated twice, after which
she could only become his wife again through a second marriage
ceremony. The third, absolute, required three repetitions of the phrase
and became effective the day her next reproductive cycle ended. There
could be no remarriage unless she had, in the interim, been married to
another.
"Absolute."
"Do you 'insist'?"
"I do."
"Then by law you must return the entire marriage settlement."
"You took it from me and squandered it long ago on _affion_ and pretty
boys. What is left to return?"
"Then it is done."
Hawksworth watched in disbelief as Mukarrab Khan repeated three times
the Arabic phrase from the Quran that cast her out. The two Jesuits
also stood silently, their faces horrified.
Shirin listened impassively as his voice echoed across the stunned
courtyard. Then without a word she ripped the strands of pearls from
her neck and threw them at his feet. Before Mukarrab Khan could speak
again, she had turned and disappeared through the doorway of the
palace.
"In the eyes of God, Excellency, you will always be man and wife,"
Father Sarmento broke the silence. "What He has joined, man cannot
rend."
A look of great weariness seemed to flood Mukarrab Khan's face as he
groped to find the facade of calm that protected him. Then, with an
almost visible act of will, it came again.
"Perhaps you understand now, Father, why the Prophet's laws grant us
more than one wife. Allah allows for certain . . . mistakes." He forced
a smile, then whirled on a wide-eyed eunuch. "Will the packing be
finished by morning?"
"As ordered, Khan Sahib." The eunuch snapped to formality.
"Then see dinner is served my guests, or put my kitchen _wallahs_ to
the lash." He turned back to Hawksworth. "I'm told you met her once,
Ambassador. I trust she was more pleasant then."
"Merely by accident, Excellency. While I was at the . . . in the
garden."
"She does very little by accident. You should mark her well."
"Your counsel is always welcome, Excellency." Hawksworth felt his pulse
surge. "What will she do now?"
"I think she will have all her wishes granted." He turned wearily
toward the marble columns of the veranda. "You will forgive me if I
must leave you now for a while. You understand I have further
dispatches to prepare."
He turned and was gone. After a moment's pause, the despairing Jesuits
trailed after.
And suddenly the courtyard seemed empty.
The waves curled gently against the shore, breaking iridescent over the
staves of a half-buried keg. Before him the sea spread wide and empty.
Only a single sail broke the horizon. His mare pawed impatiently, but
Hawksworth could not bring himself to turn her back toward the road.
Not yet. Only when the sail's white had blended with the sea did he
rein her around and, with one last glance at the empty blue, give her
the spur.
He rode briskly past the nodding palms along the shore, then turned
inland toward Surat, through villages of thatch- roofed houses on low
stilts. Women watched from the wide porches, sewing, nursing infants.
After a time he no longer saw them, no longer urged the mare. His
thoughts were filled with images from the tumultuous evening past.
He had paced the vacant rooms of the palace till the early hours of
morning, his mind in turmoil. Sleep was never a possibility. When the
courtyard at last grew still, he had slipped back into the garden,
wanting its openness, the feel of its order. In the moonlight it lay
deserted, and as he strolled alongside the bubbling fountain, he felt
himself even more lost in this alien place, this alien land. The pilot
Karim had been right. India had already unsettled him more than he
thought he could bear.
In time he found himself wandering once more through the orchard, amid
the wistful calls of night birds. The trees formed a roof of leafy
shadows, cold and joyless as the moon above. Even then, all he could
see was Shirin, poised defiant in the stark torchlight, taunting the
queen. She had offered herself up to almost certain death, for reasons
he scarcely comprehended.
Before he fully realized where he was, he looked up and saw the
observatory. A tiny blinking owl perched atop the staircase, studying
him critically as he approached. Around him the marble instruments
glistened like silver, while ahead stood the stone hut, forlorn now,
more ramshackle than he had ever remembered, more abandoned. He
reflected sadly that it probably would soon be forgotten entirely. Who
would ever come here again?
The door of the hut was sealed tightly and for a time he stood simply
looking at it, trying to recall all that had passed inside. Finally he
reached with a determined hand and pulled it wide.
Shirin stared up from the table in shock, grabbing the lamp as though
to extinguish it. Then she recognized him in the flickering light.
"Why . . . why are you here?"
Before he could answer, she moved in front of the table, masking it
from his view. "You should not have come. If you're seen . . ."
As his own surprise passed, he felt himself suddenly wanting to take
her in his arms. "What does it matter now? You're divorced." The words
filled him with momentary exhilaration, till he remembered the rest.
"You're also in danger, whether I'm seen or not."
"That's my concern."
"What are you planning to do?"
"Leave. But I still have friends."
He reached out and took the lamp from her, to feel the touch of her
hand. It was soft and warm. "Will I ever see you again?"
"Who knows what will happen now?" The wildness in her eyes was
beginning to gentle. She moved back from the table and dropped into a
chair. He realized it was the same chair she had sat in when telling
him about the queen. On the table before her were piles of papers, tied
into small, neat bundles. She examined him for a few moments in
silence, then reached to brush the hair back from her eyes. "Did you
come here just to see me?"
"Not really . . ." He stopped, then laughed. "I think maybe I did. I
think I somehow knew you would be here, without realizing I knew. I've
been thinking about you all night."
"Why?" Her voice quickened just enough for him to notice.
"I'm not sure. I do know I'm very worried about what may happen to
you."
"No one else seems to be. No one will talk to me now, not even the
servants. Suddenly I don't exist." Her eyes softened. "Thank you. Thank
you for coming. It means you're not afraid. I'm glad."
"Why do you care whether I came or not?" He asked almost before
realizing what he was saying.
She hesitated, and unconsciously ran her glance down his frame. "To see
you one more time." He thought he saw something enter her eyes, rising
up unbidden. "Don't you realize you've become very special for me?"
"Tell me." He studied her eyes in the lamplight, watching them soften
even more.
"You're not like anyone I've ever known. You're part of something
that's very strange to me. I sometimes find myself dreaming of you.
You're . . . you're very powerful. Something about you." She caught
herself, then laughed. "But maybe it's not really you I dream about at
all. Maybe it's what you are."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a man, from the West. There's a strength about you I can't
fully understand." He watched her holding herself in check.
"Go on."
"Maybe it's partly the way you touch and master the things around you."
She looked at him directly. "Let me try to explain what I mean. For
most people in India, the world that matters most is the world within.
We explore the seas inside our own mind. And so we wait, we wait for
the world outside to be brought to us. But for you the inner world
seems secondary." She laughed again, and now her voice was controlled
and even. "Perhaps I'm not explaining it well. Let me try again. Do you
remember the first thing you did on your very first morning in the
palace?"
"I walked out here, to the observatory."
"But why did you?"
"Because I'm a seaman, and I thought . . ."
"No, that's only partly the reason." She smiled. "I think you came to
see it because it belongs to the world of things. Like a good European,
you felt you must first and always be the master of things. Of ships,
of guns, even of the stars. Maybe that's why I find you so strong." She
paused, then reached out and touched his hand. The gesture had been
impulsive, and when she realized what she'd done, she moved to pull it
back, then stopped herself.
He looked at her in the lamplight, then gently placed his other hand
over hers and held it firm. "Then let me tell you something. I find you
just as hard to understand. I find myself drawn to something about you,
and it troubles me."
"Why should it trouble you?"
"Because I don't know who you are. What you are. Even what you're
doing, or why. You've risked everything for principles that are
completely outside me." He looked into her eyes, trying to find words.
"And regardless of what you say, I think you somehow know everything
there is to know about me. I don't even have to tell you."
"Things pass between a man and woman that go beyond words. Not
everything has to be said." She shifted her gaze away. "You've had
great sadness in your life. And I think it's killed some part of you.
You no longer allow yourself to trust or to love."
"I've had some bad experiences with trust."
"But don't let it die." Her eyes met his. "It's the thing most
worthwhile."
He looked at her a long moment, feeling the tenderness beneath her
strength, and he knew he wanted her more than anything. Before he
thought, he had slipped his arm around her waist and drawn her up to
him. He later remembered his amazement at her softness, her warmth as
he pulled her body against his own. Before she could speak, he had
kissed her, bringing her mouth full to his lips. He had thought for an
instant she would resist, and he meant to draw her closer. Only then
did he realize it was she who had come to him, pressing her body
against his. They clung together in the lamplight, neither wanting the
moment to end. At last, with an act of will, she pulled herself away.
"No." Her breath was coming almost faster than his own. "It's
impossible."
"Nothing's impossible." He suddenly knew, with an absolute certainty,
that he had to make her his own. "Come with me to Agra. Together . . ."
"Don't say it." She stopped his lips with her finger. "Not yet." She
glanced at the papers on the table, then reached for his hand, bringing
it to her moist cheek. "Not yet."
"You're leaving. So am I. We'll leave together."
"I can't." She was slipping from him. He felt it. "I'll think of you
when you're in Agra. And when we're ready, we'll find each other, I
promise it."
Before he knew, she had turned and gathered the bundles. When she
reached for the lamp, suddenly her hand stopped.
"Let's leave it." She looked toward him. "Still burning." Then she
reached out and brushed his lips with her fingertips one last time. He
watched in dismay as she passed on through the doorway. In moments she
was lost among the shadows of the orchard.
BOOK THREE
THE ROAD
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
East along the Tapti River valley the land was a verdant
paradise, a patchwork of mango and pipal groves and freshly turned dark
earth. By mid-October the fields of cotton, corn, and sugarcane were in
harvest; and in the lowlands paired buffalo strained to turn the
crusted mud to readiness for broadcast sowing the grain crops of
autumn: millet, wheat, and barley. The monsoon-washed roads had again
grown passable, and now they were a continual procession, as mile-long
caravans of corn-laden bullock carts inched ponderously west toward the
shipping port of Surat.
The distance from Surat to Burhanpur was one hundred and fifty _kos_,
and in dry weather it could be traversed in just over a fortnight.
Vasant Rao had hired fifty carts to transport the sealed bundles--which
he said were lead--to Burhanpur, swelling his entourage of forty Raput
horsemen by fifty low-caste drivers and bullock teams. He had also
hired five additional carts to carry provisions.
Brian Hawksworth had contracted for his own cart and driver,
negotiating a price of twenty rupees for cartage of his belongings all
the way from Surat to Agra. He was amused to reflect that the chest
containing King James's gifts for the Moghul of India traveled lashed
to the bed of a ramshackle, wooden-wheeled cart originally intended for
hay.
The caravan had been scheduled to depart early on a Saturday morning,
but the drivers had suddenly refused to budge until the following day.
Hawksworth had confronted his driver, Nayka, a dark-skinned low-caste
man with the spindly limbs of the underfed, and demanded to know why.
Nayka had twisted his head deferentially, riveting his eyes on the
ground, and explained in halting Turki.
"Today is Saturday, Captain Sahib. Saturdays and
Tuesdays are sacred to the goddess Devi, the Divine Mother. Journeys
begun on those days always meet disaster. Bandits, tigers, washed-out
roads. A Mussalman once made my cousin bring a cart of indigo to Surat
from a village down the river on a Tuesday, and a bridge broke under
his load. Both of his bullocks were drowned."
It was mid-afternoon on Sunday when the caravan finally pulled out from
the water tank at Surat's Abidjan Gate. By nightfall they had traveled
three _kos_, reaching the outskirts of the village of Cossaria. The
next day they made twelve _kos_ east-northeast to reach the town of
Karod, a strategic fort on the Tapti, dominated by a hilltop castle
that garrisoned two hundred Rajput soldiers. The next three days their
camp stages had been the towns of Viara, Corka, and the large garrison
city of Narayanpur.
On the insistence of Mirza Nuruddin, Hawksworth had carried only a
minimal amount of money with him. Instead he had adopted the practice
of Indian merchants, leaving a chest of silver in Surat and receiving a
letter of credit, which could be debited for cash at major stops along
the road to Agra. Moneylenders received negotiable notes against the
silver deposit, which would be paid in Surat at 7 percent surcharge,
thereby allowing travelers along the bandit-infested roads to carry
cheques instead of cash.
Hawksworth found himself annoyed that Vasant Rao never allowed the
caravan to stop inside the towns, where traditional Indian guest
houses--a stone floor and a roof-- were available free for travelers.
Instead they camped each evening on the outskirts, while a few Rajputs
rode in to the town bazaar to buy fresh vegetables, bricks of cow dung
for cooking, and betel leaves for the drivers.
The evening they reached Narayanpur, the governor of the garrison,
Partab Shah, had paid a surprise visit to their camp, bringing his own
troup of _nautch_ women. While the women entertained the Rajputs with
an evening of dance and low-priced intimacy, Partab Shah whispered
warnings to Hawksworth that the road farther east was no longer safe
now that civil rule in the Deccan was teetering. The governor had
offered to provide additional troops to escort the English ambassador
and his gifts for the Moghul safely through the district. To the
governor's--and Hawksworth's--dismay, Vasant Rao had politely declined.
It had been well after midnight when the governor and his aides rose to
return to Narayanpur. Vasant Rao had insisted that the women be sent
with him. Then he convened the Rajputs and drivers and announced that
they would assemble the caravan two hours before sunup the following
morning, an hour earlier than usual. They would try to reach and ford
the Tapti before nightfall, then veer northeast for Burhanpur.
Hawksworth thought he detected a trace of worry in Vasant Rao's voice
for the first time.
They were well underway by sunup the next day, and as he fought off
sleep in the rising heat, Hawksworth reflected on what he had seen
along the road. It was clear the larger towns were collection depots
for the Surat region, centers where grain, cotton, indigo, and hemp
were assembled for delivery to the port. As their caravan rumbled
through town after town, Hawksworth began to find them merely a
provincial version of Surat, equally frenetic and self-absorbed. Their
bazaars bustled with haggling brokers and an air of commerce
triumphant. After a time he began to find them more wearisome than
exotic.
But between these towns lived the other India, one of villages
unchanged for centuries. To a Londoner and seaman they were another
world, and Hawksworth understood almost nothing of what he saw. Several
times he had started to ask Vasant Rao some question about a village,
but the time never seemed right. The Rajput was constantly occupied
with the progress of the caravan and never spoke unless he was giving
an order. The long silence of the road had gathered between them until
it was almost an invisible wall.
For no apparent reason this changed suddenly on the afternoon after
Narayanpur, as the caravan rumbled into the small village of Nimgul and
began working its way along the single road through the town. Vasant
Rao drew his mount alongside Hawksworth's and pointed to a white
plaster building up ahead that dominated the center of the village.
"I grew to manhood in a village such as this, Captain, in a house much
like that one there."
Hawksworth examined the well-kept house, and then the village around
it. Spreading away on all sides were tumbledown thatch-roofed homes of
sticks and clay, many raised on foot-high stilts to keep them above the
seasonal mud. Gaunt, naked children swarmed about the few remaining
trees, their voices piping shrilly at play, while elderly men lounged
on the porches smoking hookahs. Most of the able-bodied men seemed to
be in the fields, leaving their women--unsmiling laborers in drab body-
length wraps, a large marriage ring dangling from one nostril--to toil
in the midday sun combing seeds from large stacks of cotton, shelling
piles of small-eared corn, and boiling a dense brown liquid in wide
iron pans.
Vasant Rao drew up his horse in front of the pans and spoke rapidly
with one of the sad-eyed women. There was a tinkle of her heavy silver
bracelets as she bowed to him, then turned to ask a turbaned overseer
to offer them two clay cups of the liquid. Vasant Rao threw the man a
small coin, a copper _pice_, and passed one of the cups to Hawksworth.
It was viscous and sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. Vasant Rao
savored a mouthful, then discarded the cup into the road.
"They're boiling cane juice to make _gur_, those brown blocks of sugar
you see in the bazaars, for the Brahmin landholders to sell. She's a
Camar, a low caste, and she works from sunup to dusk for a day's supply
of _chapattis_, fried wheat cakes, for her household. Wages haven't
risen in the villages since I was a boy."
"Why did she ask the overseer to bring you the cup?"
"Because I'm a Rajput." Vasant Rao seemed startled by the question. "I
would pollute my caste if I took a cup from the hand of a Camar. If a
Rajput or a Brahmin eats food that's been handled by a member of the
low castes, he may be obligated to undergo ritual purification. If you
are born to a high caste, Captain, you must honor its obligations."
Hawksworth studied him, wondering why he had finally decided to talk.
Security had been unaccountably tight for a shipment of lead. Vasant
Rao had insisted that all carts be kept within the perimeter of the
camp, inside the circle of guards. No one, neither drivers nor guards,
had been allowed to touch the contents of the carts: sealed packages
individually wrapped and lashed in bricks.
"Did you grow up around here?" Hawksworth tried to widen the opening.
"No, of course not." He laughed sharply. "Only a _feringhi_ would ask
that. I was born in the foothills of the Himalayas, hundreds of _kos_
north of Agra. In a Rajput village. The villages in the Surat district
are ruled by Brahmins."
"Are Rajput villages like this?"
"All villages are more or less the same, Captain. How could it be
otherwise? They're all Hindu. This is the real India, my friend.
Muslims and Moghuls, and now Christians, come and go. This stays the
same. These villages will endure long after the marble cities of the
Moghuls are dust. That's why I feel peace here. Knowing this cannot be
destroyed, no matter who rules in Agra."
Hawksworth looked about the village. It seemed to be ruled by cattle.
They roamed freely, arrogantly, secure in the centuries-old instinct
that they were sacred and inviolable. Naked children had begun to swarm
after the carts, and a few young women paused to cast discreet glances
at the handsome Rajput horsemen. But the main work pressed monotonously
forward. It was a place untouched by the world beyond its horizons.
"You said this was a Brahmin village. Are all the men here priests?"
"Of course not." Vasant Rao grunted a laugh and gestured toward the
fields beyond. "Who would do the work? There must be the other castes,
or the Brahmins would starve. Brahmins and Rajputs are forbidden by the
laws of caste from working the land. I meant this village is ruled by
Brahmins, although I'd guess no more than one family in ten is high
caste. The brick and plaster homes there in the center of the village
probably belong to Brahmins. The villages of India, Captain Hawksworth,
are not ruled by the Moghuls.They're ruled by the high castes. Here,
the Brahmins, in other villages, the Rajputs. These, together with some
merchants called Banias, make up the high-caste Hindus, the wearers of
the sacred thread of the twice born, the real owners and rules of
India. All the other castes exist to serve them."
"I thought there were only four castes."
Hawksworth remembered that Mukarrab Khan had once described the caste
system of the Hindus with obvious Muslim disgust. There are four
castes, he had explained, each striving to exploit those below. The
greatest exploiters called themselves Brahmin, probably Aryan invaders
who had arrived thousands of years past and now proclaimed themselves
"preservers of tradition." That tradition, which they invented, was
mainly subjugation of all the others. Next came the Kshatriya, the
warrior caste, which had been claimed by Rajput tribes who also had
invaded India, probably well after the Brahmins. The third caste, also
"high," was called Vaisya, and was supposed to be made up of society's
producers of foods and goods. Now it was the caste claimed by rich,
grasping Hindu merchants. Below all these were the Sudra, who were in
effect the servants and laborers for the powerful "high" castes. But
even the Sudra had someone to exploit, for beneath them were the
Untouchables, those unfortunates in whose veins probably ran the blood
of the original inhabitants of India. The Untouchables had no caste.
The part that annoyed Mukarrab Khan the most was that high-caste Hindus
regarded all Muslims as part of the mass of Untouchables.
"The four main castes are those prescribed in the order of the _varna_,
the ancient Aryan scriptures. But the world of the village has little
to do with the _varna_. Today there are many castes," Vasant Rao
continued, reflecting to himself how he loathed most Brahmins, who took
every opportunity to claim caste superiority over Rajputs. "For
example, the Brahmins here probably have two subcastes--one for the
priests, who think up ceremonies as an excuse to collect money, and the
other for the landowners, most of whom are also moneylenders. "There"--
he pointed--"that man is a Brahmin."
Hawksworth saw a shirtless man standing by one of the white plaster
homes. He wore a dingy loincloth beneath his enormous belly, and as
Hawksworth examined him he noticed a strand of thread that circled
around his neck and under his left arm.
"Why is he wearing a cord around his shoulder?"
"That's the sacred thread of the high castes. I wear one myself."
Vasant Rao opened his shirt to reveal a strand of three colored
threads, woven together. "It's consecrated and given to boys around age
ten at a very important ceremony. Before the thread ceremony a boy has
no caste. An orthodox Brahmin won't even eat with his son until after
the boy's thread ceremony."
Hawksworth examined the thread. It was the first time he'd noticed it.
"What about the men who don't wear a thread?"
"They're the middle castes, the ones who do the work in a village.
Carpenters, potters, weavers, barbers. They serve the high castes and
each other. The barber shaves the potter; the potter makes his vessels.
The Brahmins here probably won't sell them any land, so they'll always
be poor. That's why the middle castes live in houses of mud and thatch
instead of brick. And below them are the unclean castes. Sweepers,
servants, shoemakers."
And below them are the non-Hindus, Hawksworth thought. Me.
"What the hell's the reason for all this? It's worse than the class
system in England. I'll drink with any man, high or low. I have. And I
usually prefer to drink with the low."
"That may explain why most _feringhis_ seem so confused and unhappy.
Caste is the most important thing in life." Vasant Rao glanced over his
shoulder at the receding village. "It's the reason India's civilization
has lasted for thousands of years. I pity your misfortune, Captain
Hawksworth, not to have been born a Hindu. Perhaps you were once, and
will be again in some future life. I think you'll someday be reborn a
Kshatriya, a member of the warrior caste. Then you'll know who you are,
what you must do. Unlike the Moghuls and the other Muslims, who have no
caste and never know their purpose in life, a Rajput always knows."
As they rode on through the countryside Hawksworth tried to understand
the purpose of castes. Its absurdity annoyed him.
Mukarrab khan was right for once. It's just a class system, devised by
the highborn to keep the others in submission. But why do they all seem
to believe in it? Why don't the so-called lower castes just tell the
others to go to hell?
As they neared the next village, he decided to try to guess who was in
which caste. But the central road in the village was deserted. Instead
all the villagers, men and women, were clustered around a tall,
brightly painted pole that had been erected near one of the dingy
thatch homes. Vasant Rao's face brightened when he saw the pole.
"There must be a wedding here today. Have you ever seen one?"
"No. Not in India."
"This is a powerful moment, Captain, when you feel the force of
_prahna_, the life spirit."
Vasant Rao pointed toward a pavilion that had been erected next to the
marriage pole. From horseback Hawksworth could just make out the bride
and groom, both dressed in red wraps trimmed in silver. The groom wore
a high turban, on top of which were ceremonial decorations, and the
bride was so encrusted with precious metals she might have been a life-
size ornament: her hands, wrists, feet, ankles, and her head were all
adorned with elaborately worked silver rings, bracelets, medallions.
Her necklace was a string of large gold coins.
"Where'd she get all the silver and gold?"
"Her father is probably a big landowner. Those ornaments are her
savings and part of her dowry. Look, all the women wear thick bracelets
of silver on their ankles. There's much gold and silver in India,
Captain."
As Hawksworth watched, a Brahmin priest, his forehead streaked with
white clay, finished lighting a fire in a central brazier and then
began to recite.
"The priest is reciting from the Vedas, Sanskrit scriptures thousands
of years old," Vasant Rao continued as they watched. "This is a ritual
going back to the dawn of time."
The couple began repeating the priest's verses, their faces intent and
solemn.
"They're taking the marriage vows now. There are seven. The most
important is the wife's vow of complete obedience to her husband. See
the silver knife he carries? That's to symbolize his dominion over her.
But really, she will belong to his entire family when she finally comes
to live at his house."
"What do you mean by 'finally'?"
"These things take time. To begin with, a marriage proposal must come
from the family of the girl. As she approaches womenhood, her father
will hire a marriage broker, probably the village barber, to go to
surrounding villages to look for a suitable match. I remember when I
was young and they used to come to my village." Vasant Rao's face
assumed a faraway expression. "I didn't want to marry and I dreaded
seeing them, but unfortunately I was a good catch. My subcaste is high,
and I had many sisters, which meant more women to share the work in our
house. Then one day my father ordered the priest to cast my horoscope
and I knew I was lost. A broker had brought an inquiry from a girl who
had a compatible horoscope. Soon after, the engagement ceremony was
held in our house. The girl was not there, of course; I didn't see her
until three years later. When we finally had the ceremony you see
here."
The bride and groom were standing together now, and they began to
circle the fire while the women standing nearby sang a monotonous,
repetitive song. Hawksworth counted seven turns of the fire. Then they
seated themselves and the priest placed a red dot on the forehead of
man and wife.
"They'll feast tonight, and then the groom will return to his village."
Vasant Rao spurred his mount to catch up with the caravan. "Later she
and her family will go there for more ceremonies. After that the groom
may not see her again for several years, until the day her father
decides she's ready for the _gauna_, the consummation of the marriage.
I didn't see my bride again for two years."
"What happened then?"
"She came to my village for a few days and stayed in the women's
quarters--the men and women sleep apart in these villages--and I had to
go there and try to find her cot. After that she went back home and it
was several months later before I saw her again. Then she came back,
for a longer time. Finally she moved to my village, but by then I was
nineteen and soon after I left on a campaign. She stayed with my
younger brother while I was gone, and when I returned, she was with
child. Who can say whether it was mine or his? But none of it matters,
for she died in childbirth." He spurred his horse past the line of
carts. "Let's try to make the river before sundown."
Hawksworth couldn't believe what he had heard, and he whipped his mount
to catch up.
"Your brother kept your wife while you were away?"
"Of course. I don't know how it is here, but in the part of India where
I was born, brothers normally share each other's wives. I used to go to
my older brother's house when he was gone and visit his wife. She
expected it and would have been upset if I hadn't come to her." Vasant
Rao was puzzled by Hawksworth's surprise. "Don't brothers share one
another's wives in England?"
"Well, not. . . usually. I mean . . . no. Hell no. It's damned close to
incest. The truth is a husband would have grounds to call out a man he
caught with his wife. And especially a brother."
"'Call him out,' Captain? What does that mean?"
"A duel. With swords. Or maybe pistols."
Vasant Rao was incredulous.
"But what if a man goes away on a campaign? His wife will grow
frustrated. Hindus believe a woman has seven times the sexual energy of
a man. She would start meeting other men in the village if a man didn't
have a brother to keep her satisfied. In the village where I grew up,
if a man and woman met together by chance in the forest, and they had
the same caste, we all assumed they would make the most of the
opportunity. So it's better for the honor of the family if your
brothers care for your wife. It's an important duty for brothers. And
besides, as long as a woman attends to her own husband's needs, what
does it matter if his brother enjoys her also?"
Hawksworth found himself astonished.
"How does . . . I mean, what about this brother's own wife? What does
she think about all this?"
"If her husband wants to visit his brothers' wives, what should she
care? It's normal. She'll also find ways to meet her husband's brothers
for the same purpose. Women married to brothers often try to send each
other away on errands, in order to enjoy the other's husband. So wives
have no reason to complain. In fact, if a woman returns to her own
village for a visit, she will probably seek out some of the men she
knew when she was young and enjoy them, since her husband is not around
and no one in her own village would tell him. Hindus in the villages
don't lock away their women the way the Muslims do, Captain Hawksworth.
And because they're free to enjoy whoever they wish, they aren't
frustrated and unhappy the way Muslim women are. Surely your England is
an advanced country where women have the same freedom."
Hawksworth puzzled for a minute before trying to answer. The truth is
there's a big difference between what's said and what's done. With
chastity praised from the pulpits and whores the length of London. And
highborn ladies thronging the playhouses, ready to cuckold their
husbands with any cavalier who'll give them a look. How can I explain
it?
"I guess you'd say upper-class women have the most freedom to take
lovers. Usually young gallants or soldiers. And no one is surprised if
her husband makes full use of his serving wench."
"Are these soldiers and serving women from a lower caste?"
"Well, we don't exactly have . . ." Hawksworth paused for a moment.
"Actually I guess you could say they're a lower 'caste,' in a way."
Vasant reined in his mount and inspected Hawksworth for a moment in
disgust.
"Please excuse me if I say yours must be a very immoral country.
Captain. Such a thing would never happen in India. No Rajput would
touch the body of a low caste. It would be pollution."
"You don't care what your women do? All that matters is who they do it
with?" Hawksworth suddenly realized he found it all too absurd to
believe. It sounds like another tale of the Indies. Concocted to
entertain credulous seamen. "All right, then, what about your own wife?
Did she have other men besides your brothers?"
"How would I know?" Vasant Rao waved his hand, dismissing the question
as insignificant. "I suppose it's possible. But after she died I
decided I'd had enough of wives and women. I took a vow of chastity.
There's the legend of a god named Hanumanji, who took on the flesh of a
monkey and who gained insuperable strength by retaining his semen. It
made him invulnerable." Vasant Rao smiled. "So far it's worked for me
as well. But to protect the charm, I eat no meat and drink a glass of
opium each day."
The Rajput suddenly spurred his mount toward the head of the caravan.
The sun had disappeared behind a heavy bank of storm clouds in the
west, and the road had already begun to darken. The river was probably
still another hour away, perhaps two hours.
Hawksworth studied Vasant Rao's tall, commanding form, sitting erect
and easy in the saddle.
Sweet Jesus, he thinks he's invulnerable because he avoids women and
drinks opium. Rajputs are even madder than the damned Turks. And he
thinks the high castes rule by the will of God. I wonder what the low
castes think?
Hawksworth puzzled through the Rajput's words and half-dozed in the
saddle until he realized they were finally approaching the river.
Ahead, past groves of mango trees, lay a sandy expanse leading down
toward the water's edge. As they approached, Vasant Rao sent some of
his horsemen to scout along the riverbank in both directions to find a
shallow spot for crossing. The caravan followed the stream for half a
_kos_, then halted on a sandy plain that sloped gradually down toward
the wide stream. The water rippled slightly all the way across,
signifying there were no lurking depths to swallow a cart.
The sun was dying, washing a veneer of gold over the high dark clouds
threatening in the east. The smell of rain hinted in the evening air.
Vasant Rao peered across the water's darkening surface for a time,
while the drivers waited patiently for orders to begin crossing, then
he turned to the waiting Rajputs.
"The light is too far gone." He stroked the mane of his gray stallion
and again studied the clouds building where the sun had been. "It's
safer to camp here and cross in the morning."
He signaled the head driver and pointed the Rajputs toward a sandy
expanse close to the water's edge. In moments the drivers were urging
their teams toward the spot, circling them in preparation for the
night.
"The carts will go on the riverside, and we'll camp here." He specified
areas for the Rajputs and the drivers, and then he turned to Hawksworth
and pointed out a large mango tree. "Your tent can go there."
Hawksworth had been required by the Rajputs to keep a separate area for
his campfire and cooking. Vasant Rao had explained the reasons the
first evening of the journey.
"Food is merely an external part of the body, Captain, so naturally it
must be kept from pollution. Food is transformed into blood, and the
blood eventually turns to flesh, the flesh to fat, and the fat to
marrow. The marrow turns to semen, the life-force. Since you have no
caste, a Rajput would become polluted if he allowed you to touch his
food, or even the pots in which he cooked."
Hawksworth's driver, being a low caste, had no objection to cooking and
eating with the English ambassador. Their diet on the trip had been
simple. The Rajputs lived mainly on game they killed as they rode,
though some occasionally ate fish. A few seemed to subsist on rice,
wheat cakes, and boiled lentils. That night, as an experiment,
Hawksworth ordered his driver, Nayka, to prepare a dinner of whatever
he himself was having. Then he reclined against his saddle, poured
himself a tankard of brandy, and watched the preparations.
Nayka struck up a fire of twigs, to ignite the chips of dried
cow dung used for the real cooking, and then he began to heat a curved
pan containing _ghee_, butter that had been boiled and strained to
prevent rancidity. Although the Rajputs cooked in vegetable oil, Nayka
had insisted from the first that a personage as important as the
English _feringhi_ should eat only clarified butter. The smoldering
chips of dung took a long time to heat, but finally the ghee seemed
ready. Nayka had ground spices as he waited, and he began to throw them
into the hot fat to sputter. Then he chopped vegetables and dropped
them in to fry. In a separate pot he was already boiling lentils,
together with a yellow spice he called turmeric. As the meal neared
readiness, he began to fry _chappatis_, thin patties of unleavened
wheat flour mixed with water and ghee. Then Hawksworth watched in shock
as Nayka discreetly dropped a coal of burning cow dung into the pot of
cooking lentils.
"What the hell was that?"
"Flavoring, Captain Sahib." Nayka's Turkish had been learned through
procuring women for Turkish seamen, and it was heavily accented and
abrupt. "It's the secret of the flavor of our lentils."
"Is that 'high-caste' practice?"
"I think it is the same for all." Nayka examined him for a moment,
twisting his head deferentially. "Does the Sahib know about caste?"
"I know it's a damnable practice."
"The Sahib says what the Sahib says, but caste is a very good thing."
"How do you figure that?"
"Because I will be reborn a Brahmin. I went to a soothsayer who told
me. My next life will be marvelous."
"But what about this life?"
"My present birth was due to a very grave mistake. The soothsayer
explained it. He said that in my last life I was a Rajput. Once I
ordered my cook to prepare a gift for some Brahmins, to bake bread for
them, and inside the bread I had put gold. It was an act of great
merit. But the faithless cook betrayed me. He stole the gold and put
stones in its place. The Brahmins were very insulted, but no one ever
told me why. Because I had insulted Brahmins, I was reborn as I am. But
my next life will be different. I will be rich and have many women.
Like a Brahmin or a Rajput." Nayka's eyes gleamed in anticipation.
"The improvement in money I can understand." Hawksworth examined
Nayka's ragged dhoti. "But what does it matter when it comes to women?
There seems to be plenty of randy women to go around, in all castes."
"That's true if you are a Rajput or a Brahmin. Then no woman of any
caste can refuse you. But if you are a low caste, and you are caught
with a high-caste woman, you'll probably be beaten to death by the
Rajputs. They would say you were polluting her caste."
"Wait a minute. I thought Rajputs would have nothing to do with a low-
caste woman." Hawksworth remembered Vasant Rao's stern denial.
"Who told you that?" Nayka smiled at Hawksworth's naivete. "I would
guess a Rajput. They always deny it to strangers, so you won't form
unfavorable ideas about the high castes. Let me tell you that it is a
lie, Captain Sahib. They take our women all the time, and there is
nothing we can say. But a low-caste man with a high-caste woman is
another matter."
"But what about their 'ritual pollution'? They're not supposed to touch
the low castes."
"It's very simple. A Rajput can take one of our women if he chooses,
and then just take a bath afterward and he is clean again."
"But can't a high-caste woman do the same, if she's been with a low-
caste man?"
"No, Captain Sahib. Because they say her pollution is internal. She has
the polluting emissions of the low-caste man within her. So there is no
way she can be purified. It's the way the high castes control their
women. But if you're a man, you can have any woman you please, and
there's nothing anyone can say." Again Nayka's eyes brightened. "It
will be wonderful the day I am reborn. Caste is a wonderful thing."
Hawksworth studied the half-starved, almost toothless
man who stood before him barefoot, grinning happily.
Well, enjoy your dreams, you poor miserable son-of-a- bitch. I'll not
be the one to tell you this life is all you get.
He took a slug of brandy and returned to his dung-flavored lentils.
Taken with some of the charcoal-flavored bread they were actually
better than he'd expected.
Vasant Rao had already summoned the Rajputs and made assignments for
the evening guard duty. Guards were to be doubled. Hawksworth remained
astounded by the Rajput concept of security. A large kettledrum was set
up at the head of the camp and continually beaten from dusk to dawn. A
detail of Rajputs would march around the perimeter of the camp
throughout the night, and on the quarter hour a shout of "khabardar,"
meaning "take heed," would circle the camp. The first night Hawksworth
had found it impossible to sleep for the noise, but the second night
and thereafter his weariness overtook him.
He poured himself another brandy and watched as Nayka scrubbed out the
cooking pans with ashes and sand. Then the driver rolled a betel leaf
for Hawksworth and another for himself and set to work erecting the
tent, which was nothing more than four poles with a canopy. After this
he unloaded Hawksworth's cot, a foot-high wooden frame strung with
hemp. None of the Rajputs used cots; they preferred a thin pallet on
the ground.
Nayka seemed to work more slowly as he started unrolling the bedding
onto the hemp strings of the cot, and he began to glance nervously at
the sky. Suddenly he stopped and slipped quietly to where the other
drivers were encamped, seated on their haunches around a fire, passing
the mouthpiece of a hookah. A long discussion followed, with much
pointing at the sky. Then Nayka returned and approached Hawksworth,
twisting his head in the deferential bow all Indians seemed to use to
superiors. He stood for a moment in hesitation, and then summoned the
courage to speak.
"It is not well tonight. Sahib. We have traveled this road many times."
He pointed east into the dark, where new lightning played across the
hovering bank of clouds. "There has been rain near Chopda, farther east
where the river forks. In two _pahars_ time, six of your hours, the
river will begin to rise here."
"How much will it rise?"
"Only the gods can tell. But the river will spread beyond its banks and
reach this camp. I have seen it. And it will remain impassable for
three days."
"How can you be sure?"
"I have seen it before, Sahib. The drivers all know and they are
becoming afraid. We know the treachery of this river very well. But the
other bank is near high ground. If we crossed tonight we would be
safe." Again he shifted his head deferentially. "Will you please tell
the raja?"
To the drivers, Vasant Rao could only be a raja, a hereditary prince.
All important Rajputs were automatically called rajas.
"Tell him yourself."
"We would rather you tell him, Captain Sahib. He is a high caste. It
would not be right for us to tell a raja what to do."
Hawksworth watched for a moment as the Rajput guards began taking their
place around the perimeter of the camp, and then he looked sadly at his
waiting cot.
Damn. Crossing in the dark could be a needless risk. Why didn't the
drivers say something while we still had light? God curse them and
their castes.
Then with a shrug of resignation he rose and made his way to Vasant
Rao's tent.
The Rajput leader had already removed his helmet, but after listening
to Hawksworth he reluctantly strapped it back on and called for his
second in command. Together they examined the clouds and then walked
down to the river.
In the dark no one could tell if it had begun to rise. Vasant Rao
ordered three Rajputs to ride across carrying torches, to test the
depth and mark out a path. The river was wide, but it still was no more
than a foot or two deep. When the third Rajput finally reached the far
shore, over a hundred yards away, Vasant Rao issued orders to assemble
the convoy.
The drivers moved quickly to harness their bullocks, which had been
tethered to stakes near bundles of hay. The weary cattle tossed their
heads and sniffed suspiciously at the moist air as they were whipped
into harness. Meanwhile the Rajput guards began saddling their horses.
Hawksworth saddled his own mare and watched as his cot and tent were
rolled and strapped into the cart alongside his chest. He stared again
into the darkness that enveloped the river. Nothing could be seen
except the three torches on the distant shore. Suddenly he seemed to
hear a warning bell in the back of his mind.
We're too exposed. Half the guard will be in the river while we cross.
And there'll be no way to group the carts if we need to.
He paused a moment, then retrieved his sword from the cart and buckled
it on. Next he checked the prime on the two matchlock pocket pistols he
carried, one in each boot.
Five mounted Rajputs holding torches led as the convoy started across
the sandy alluvium toward the river. Hawksworth's cart was the first to
move, and as he drew his mare alongside, Nayka threw him a grateful
smile through the flickering light of the torch strapped against one of
the cart's poles.
"You've saved us all. Captain Sahib. When the river grows angry,
nothing can appease her."
The bullocks nosed warily at the water, but Nayka gave them the lash
and they waded in without protest. The bed was gravel, smoothed by the
long action of the stream, and the water was still shallow, allowing
the large wheels of the carts to roll easily. Hawksworth pulled his
mount close to the cart and let its enormous wheel splash coolness
against his horse's flank.
The current grew swifter as they reached the center of the stream, but
the bullocks plodded along evenly, almost as though they were on dry
ground. Then the current eased again, and Hawksworth noticed that the
Rajputs riding ahead had already reined in their mounts, signifying
they had gained the far shore. Their five torches merged with the three
of the Rajputs already waiting, and together they lined the water's
edge.
Hawksworth twisted in the saddle and looked back at the line of carts.
They traveled abreast in pairs, a torchman riding between, and the
caravan had become an eerie procession of waving lights and shadows
against the dark water. The last carts were in the river now, and
Vasant Rao was riding rapidly toward him, carrying a torch.
Looks like I was wrong again, Hawksworth thought, and he turned to rein
his horse as it stumbled against a submerged rock.
The torches along the shore were gone.
He stared in disbelief for a moment, and then he saw them sputtering in
the water's edge. Lightning flashed in the east, revealing the
silhouettes of the Rajputs' mounts, stumbling along the shore, their
saddles empty. He whirled to check the caravan behind him, and at that
moment an arrow ricocheted off the pole of the cart and ripped cleanly
through the side of his jerkin. He suddenly realized the torch lashed
to the side of the cart illuminated him brilliantly, and he drew his
sword and swung at its base, slicing it in half. As it fell,
sputtering, he saw a second arrow catch Nayka squarely in the throat
and he watched the driver spin and slump wordlessly into the water.
Godforsaken luckless Hindu. Now you can be reborn a Brahmin. Only
sooner than you thought.
A shout of alarm erupted from behind, and he looked to see the
remaining Rajputs charging in formation, bows already drawn. The water
churned around him as they dashed by, advancing on the shore. The
Rajputs' horn bows hissed in rapid succession as they sent volleys of
bamboo arrows into the darkness. But the returning rain of arrows was
dense and deadly. He saw the Rajput nearest him suddenly pivot backward
in the saddle, an arrow lodged in his groin, below his leather chest
guard. Hawksworth watched incredulously as the man clung to his saddle
horn for a long last moment, pulling himself erect and releasing a
final arrow before tumbling into the water.
Again lightning flared across the sky, and in the sudden illumination
Hawksworth could see shapes along the shore, an army of mounted
horsemen, well over a hundred. They
were drawn in tight formation, calmly firing into the approaching
Rajputs. The lightning flashed once more, a broad sheet of fire across
the sky, and at that moment Hawksworth saw Vasant Rao gain the shore,
where he was instantly surrounded by a menacing wall of shields and
pikes.
Then more of the Rajputs gained the shore, and he could hear their
chant of "Ram Ram," their famous battle cry. The horsemen were moving
on the caravan now, and when the lightning blazed again Hawksworth
realized he had been surrounded.
The dark figure in the lead seized Hawksworth's right arm from behind
and began to grapple for his sword. As he struggled to draw it away,
the butt end of a pike came down hard on his forearm. A shot of pain
pierced through to his mind, clearing away the last haze of the brandy.
"You bastard." Hawksworth realized he was shouting in English. "Get
ready to die."
He twisted forward and with his free hand stretched for the pistol in
his boot. Slowly his grip closed about the cool horn of the handle, and
with a single motion he drew it upward, still grasping the sword.
As he raised himself erect he caught the outline of a dark object
swinging above him in the air. Then the lightning flashed again,
glinting off the three large silver knobs. They were being swung by the
man who held his sword arm.
My God, it's a _gurz_, the three-headed club some of the Rajputs carry
on their saddle. It's a killer.
He heard it arc above him, singing through the dark. Unlike the
Rajputs, he had no leather helmet, no padded armor. There was no time
to avoid the blow, but he had the pistol now, and he shoved it into the
man's gut and squeezed.
There was a sudden blinding flash of light. It started at his hand, but
then it seemed to explode inside his skull. The world had grown white,
like the marble walls of Mukarrab Khan's music room, and for a moment
he thought he heard again the echo of drumbeats. The cycle swelled
sensuously, then suddenly reached its culmination, when all pent-up
emotion dissolved. In the silence that followed, there was only the
face of Mukarrab Khan, surrounded by his eunuchs, his smile slowly
fading into black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The light of a single flame tip burned through the haze of his
vision, and then he heard words around him, in a terse language as
ancient as time. He tried to move, and an aching soreness shot through
his shoulders and into his groin. His head seemed afire.
I must be dead. Why is there still pain?
He forced his swollen eyelids wider, and a room slowly began to take
form. It was a cell, with heavy bamboo slats over the windows and an
ancient wooden latch on the door. The floor was earth and the walls
gray mud with occasional inscriptions in red. Next to him was a
silhouette, the outline of a man squatting before an oil lamp and
slowly repeating a sharp, toneless verse. He puzzled at the words as he
studied the figure.
It's the language of the priest at the wedding. It must be Sanskrit.
But who . . . ?
He pulled himself upward on an elbow and turned toward the figure,
which seemed to flicker in the undulating shadows. Then he recognized
the profile of Vasant Rao. The verses stopped abruptly and the Rajput
turned to examine him.
"So you're not dead? That could be a mistake you'll regret." Vasant
Rao's face sagged and his once-haughty moustache was an unkempt tangle.
He stared at Hawksworth a moment more, then turned back to the lamp.
The Sanskrit verses resumed.
"Where the hell are we?"
Vasant Rao paused, and then slowly revolved toward Hawksworth.
"In the fortress village of Bhandu, ten _kos_ northwest of the
town of Chopda. It's the mountain stronghold of the Chandella dynasty
of Rajputs."
"And who the hell are they?"
"They claim direct descent from the ancient solar race of Rajputs
described in the Puranas. Who knows, but that's what they believe. What
we all do know is they've defended these hills for all of time."
"Did they take the caravan?"
A bolt of humiliation and pain swept through Vasant Rao's eyes for a
moment and then his reserve returned. "Yes, it was taken."
"So your mighty 'solar race' is really a breed of God- cursed
common bandits."
"Bandits, they are. They always have been. Common, no. They're
professionals, honorable men of high caste."
"High-caste thieves. Like some of the merchants I've met."
Hawksworth paused and tried to find his tongue. His mouth was like
cotton. "How long've we been here?"
"This is the morning of our second day. We arrived yesterday,
after traveling all night."
"I feel like I've been keelhauled for a week." Hawksworth
gingerly touched his forehead and there was a pulse of pain.
Vasant Rao listened with a puzzled expression. "You were tied
over your horse. Some of the clan wanted to kill you and leave you
there, but then they decided that would give you too much honor."
"What the hell are you talking about? I remember I gave them a
fight."
"You used a pistol. You killed a man, the head of this dynasty,
with a pistol."
The words seemed to cut through the shadows of the room. The
pain returned and ached through Hawksworth's body.
More deaths. The two men who died on the _Discovery_. I saw Nayka die
with an arrow in his throat. And how many of the Rajput guards died?
Why am I always in the middle of fighting and death?
"The bastards killed my driver."
"The driver was nothing. A low caste." He shrugged it away. "You
are an important _feringhi_. You would not have been harmed. You should
never have drawn a pistol. And then you allowed yourself to be
captured. It was an act beneath honor. The women spat on you and your
horse when you were brought through the streets. I have no doubt
they'll kill us both now."
"Who's left alive?"
"No one. My men died like Rajputs." A trace of pride flashed through
his eyes before they dimmed again with sadness. "When they knew they
could not win, that they had failed the prince, they vowed to die
fighting. And all did."
"But you're still alive."
The words seemed almost like a knife in the Rajput's heart.
"They would not kill me. Or let me die honorably." He paused and stared
at Hawksworth. "There was a reason, but it doesn't concern you."
"So all the men died? But why did they kill the drivers?"
"The drivers weren't killed." Vasant Rao looked surprised. "I never
said that."
I keep forgetting, Hawksworth told himself, that only high castes count
as men in this God-forsaken land.
"This whole damned country is mad." The absurdity overwhelmed him. "Low
castes, your own people, handled like slaves, and high castes who kill
each other in the name of honor. A pox on Rajputs and their fornicating
honor."
"Honor is very important. Without honor what is left? We may as well be
without caste. The warrior caste lives by a code set down in the Laws
of Manu many thousands of years ago." He saw Hawksworth's impatience
and smiled sadly. "Do you understand what's meant by _dharma_?"
"It sounds like another damned Hindu invention. Another excuse to take
life."
"_Dharma_ is something, Captain Hawksworth, without which life no
longer matters. No Christian, or Muslim, has ever been able to
understand _dharma_, since it is the order that defines our castes--and
those born outside India are doomed to live forever without a caste.
_Dharma_ defines who we are and what we must do if we are to maintain
our caste. Warfare is the _dharma_ of the Kshatriya, the warrior
caste."
"And I say a pox on caste. What's so honorable about Rajputs
slaughtering each other?"
"Warriors are bound by their _dharma_ to join in battle against other
warriors. A warrior who fails in his duty sins against the _dharma_ of
his caste." Vasant Rao paused. "But why am I bothering to tell you
this? I sound like Krishna, lecturing Arjuna on his duty as a warrior."
"Who's Krishna? Another Rajput?"
"He's a god, Captain Hawksworth, sacred to all Rajputs. He teaches us
that a warrior must always honor his _dharma_."
Vasant Rao's eyes seemed to burn through the shadows of the cell. From
outside Hawksworth heard the distant chantings of some village
ceremony.
"If you'll listen, _feringhi_ captain, I'll tell you something about a
warrior's _dharma_. There's a legend, many thousands of years old, of a
great battle joined between two branches of a powerful dynasty in
ancient India. Two kings were brothers, and they shared a kingdom, but
their sons could not live in peace. One branch wished to destroy the
other. Eventually a battle was joined, a battle to the death. As they
waited on the field for the sound of the conch shell, to summon the
forces, the leader of those sons who had been wronged suddenly declared
that he could not bring himself to kill his own kinsmen. But the god
Krishna, who was charioteer for this son, reminded him he must follow
his _dharma_. That there is no greater good for a warrior than to join
battle for what is right. It's wrong only if he is attached to the
fruits of battle, if he does it for gain. It's told in the Bhagavad-
Gita, a Sanskrit scripture sacred to all warriors. I was reciting a
verse from Chapter Twelve when you woke."
"What did this god Krishna say?"
"He declared that all who live must die, and all who die will be
reborn. The spirit within us all, the _atman_, cannot be destroyed. It
travels through us on its journey from birth to rebirth. But it's not
correct to say merely that it exists. It is existence. It is the only
reality. It is present in everything because it is everything.
Therefore there's no need to mourn for death. There is no death. The
body is merely an appearance, by which the _atman_ reveals itself. The
body is only its guardian. But a warrior who turns away from the duty
of his caste sins against his honor and his _dharma_. Krishna warned
that this loss of honor could one day lead to the mixture of castes,
and then the dharma of the universe, its necessary order, would be
destroyed. It's not wrong for a Rajput to kill a worthy foe, Captain
Hawksworth, it's his duty. Just as it's also his duty to die a worthy
death."
"Why all this killing in the name of 'honor' and 'duty"?"
"Non-Hindus always want to know 'why.' To 'understand.' You always seem
to believe that words somehow contain all truth. But dharma simply is.
It is the air we breathe, the changeless order around us. We're part of
it. Does the earth ask why the monsoons come? Does the seed ask why the
sun shines each day? No. It's _dharma_. The dharma of the seed is to
bear fruit. The dharma of the warrior caste is to do battle. Only
_feringhi_, who live outside our dharma, ask 'why.' Truth is not
something you 'understand.' It's something you're part of. It's
something you feel with your being. And when you try to catch it with
words, it's gone. Can the eagle tell you how he flies, Captain
Hawksworth, or 'why"? If he could, he would no longer be an eagle. This
is the great wisdom of India. We've learned it's wasted on _feringhi_,
Captain, as I fear it's now wasted on you."
The talk left Hawksworth feeling strangely insecure, his mind wrestling
with ideas that defied rationality.
"I know there are things you understand with your gut, not with your
head."
"Then there may be hope for you, Captain Hawksworth. Now we will see if
you can die like a Rajput. If you can, perhaps you will be reborn one
of us."
"Then I might even learn to be a bandit."
"All Rajputs are not the same, Captain. There are many tribes,
descended from different dynasties. Each has its own tradition and
genealogy. I'm from the north. From the races descended from the moon.
This tribe claims descent from the solar dynasty, which also began in
the north. I think their genealogy goes back to the god Indra, who they
claim brought them into being with the aid of the sun."
Vasant Rao turned and continued reciting in Sanskrit. His face again
became a mask.
Hawksworth rubbed his head in confusion and suddenly felt a hard lump
where the club had dropped. The fear began to well up in his stomach as
he remembered the stony-faced riders who had surrounded him in the
river. But he pushed aside thoughts of death.
_Dharma_ be damned. What did he mean, they're members of a clan
descended from the "solar dynasty"? They're killers, looking for an
excuse to plunder.
I'm not planning to die like a Rajput just yet. Or be reborn as one.
Life is too sweet just as it is. I'm beginning to feel alive here, for
the first time ever. Shirin is free. I've got a feeling I'll be seeing
her again. Whatever happens, I don't care to die in this piss hole,
with empty talk about honor. Think.
He remembered the river again, and quickly felt in his boot. The other
pistol was still there.
We'll find a way to get out. Somehow. We may just lose a few days'
time, that's all. We made good time so far. Six days. We left on
Sunday, and we've been here two days. So today is probably Monday.
He suddenly froze.
"Where are the carts?"
"At the south end of the village. Where they have the _chans_, the
cattle sheds. The drivers are there too."
"Is my chest there?"
"No. It's right there. Behind you." Vasant Rao pointed into the dark.
"I told them it belonged to the Moghul, and they brought it here. I
guess the Moghul still counts for something here. Maybe they're
superstitious about him."
Hawksworth pulled himself up and reached behind him. The chest was
there. He fingered the cool metal of the lock and his mind began to
clear even more. Quickly he began to search his jerkin for the key. Its
pockets were empty.
Of course. If I was tied over a horse it.. .
Then he remembered. For safety he had transferred it to the pocket of
his breeches the second day out. He felt down his leg, fighting the
ache in his arm.
Miraculously the key was still there.
He tried to hold his excitement as he twisted it into the lock on the
chest. Once, twice, and it clicked.
He quickly checked the contents. Lute on top. Letter, still wrapped.
Clothes. Then he felt deeper and touched the metal. Slowly he drew it
out, holding his breath. It was still intact.
The light from the lamp glanced off the burnished brass of the Persian
astrolabe from the observatory. It had been Mukarrab Khan's parting
gift.
He carried it to the slatted window and carefully twisted each slat
until the sun began to stream through.
Thank God it's late in the year, when the sun's already lower at
midday.
He took a quick reading of the sun's elevation. It had not yet reached
its zenith. He made a mental note of the reading and began to wait.
Five minutes passed--they seemed hours--and he checked the elevation
again. The sun was still climbing, but he knew it would soon reach its
highest point.
Vasant Rao continued to chant verses from the Bhagavad- Gita in terse,
toneless Sanskrit.
He probably thinks I'm praying too, Hawksworth smiled to himself.
The reading increased, then stayed the same, then began to decrease.
The sun had passed its zenith, and he had the exact reading of its
elevation.
He mentally recorded the reading, then began to rummage in the bottom
of the chest for the seaman's book he always carried with him.
We left Surat on October twenty-fourth. So October twenty-fifth was
Karod, the twenty-sixth was Viara, the twenty-seventh was Corka, the
twenty-eighth was Narayanpur, the twenty-ninth was the river. Today has
to be October thirty-first.
The book was there, its pages still musty from the moist air at sea. He
reached the page he wanted and ran his finger down a column of figures
until he reached the one he had read off the astrolabe.
From the reading the latitude here is 21 degrees and 20
minutes north.
Then he began to search the chest for a sheaf of papers and finally his
fingers closed around them, buried beneath his spare jerkin. He
squinted in the half light as he went through the pages, the
handwriting hurried from hasty work in the observatory. Finally he
found what he wanted. He had copied it directly from the old Samarkand
astronomer's calculations. The numerals were as bold as the day he had
written them. The latitude was there, and the date.
With a tight smile that pained his aching face he carefully wrapped the
astrolabe and returned it to the bottom of the chest, together with the
books. He snapped the lock in place just as the door of the cell swung
open.
He looked up to see the face of the man who had swung the club.
Good Jesus, I thought he was dead. And he looks even younger. . . .
Then Hawksworth realized it had to be his son. But the heavy brow, the
dark beard, the narrow eyes, were all the same, almost as though his
father's blood had flowed directly into his veins. He wore no helmet or
breastplate now, only a simple robe, entirely white.
The man spoke curtly to Vasant Rao in a language Hawksworth did not
understand.
"He has ordered us to come with him. It's time for the ceremony. He
says you must watch how the man you killed is honored."
Vasant Rao rose easily and pinched out the oil lamp. In the darkened
silence Hawksworth heard the lowing of cattle, as well as the distant
drone of a chant. Outside the guards were waiting. He noted they
carried sheathed swords. And they too were dressed in white.
In the midday sunshine he quickly tried to survey the terrain. Jagged
rock outcrops seemed to ring the village, with a gorge providing an
easily protected entrance.
He was right. It's a fortress. And probably impregnable.
The road was wide, with rows of mud-brick homes on either side, and
ahead was an open square, where a crowd had gathered. Facing the
square, at the far end, was an immense house of baked brick, the
largest in the fortress village, with a wide front and a high porch.
As they approached the square, Hawksworth realized a deep pit had been
newly excavated directly in the center. Mourners clustered nearby,
silently waiting, while a group of women--five in all--held hands and
moved slowly around the pit intoning a dirge.
As they reached the side of the opening he saw the Rajput's body, lying
face up on a fragrant bier of sandalwood and _neem_ branches. His head
and beard had been shaved and his body bound in a silk winding sheet.
He was surrounded by garlands of flowers. The wood in the pit smelled
of _ghee_ and rose-scented coconut oil. Nearby, Brahmin priests recited
in Sanskrit.
"His body will be cremated with the full honor of a Rajput warrior."
Vasant Rao stood alongside. "It's clear the Brahmins have been paid
enough."
Hawksworth looked around at the square and the nearby houses, their
shutters all sealed in mourning. Chanting priests in ceremonial robes
had stationed themselves near the large house, and an Arabian mare, all
white and bedecked with flowers, was tied at the entrance. Suddenly the
tones of mournful, discordant music sounded around him.
As Hawksworth watched, the heavy wooden doors of the great house opened
slowly and a woman stepped into the midday sunshine. Even from their
distance he could see that she was resplendent--in an immaculate white
wrap that sparkled with gold ornaments--and her movements regal as she
descended the steps and was helped onto the horse. As she rode slowly
in the direction of the pit, she was supported on each side by Brahmin
priests, long-haired men with stripes of white clay painted down their
forehead.
"She is his wife." Vasant Rao had also turned to watch. "Now you'll see
a woman of the warrior caste follow her _dharma_."
As the woman rode slowly by, Hawksworth sensed she was only barely
conscious of her surroundings, as though she had been drugged. She
circled the pit three times, then stopped near where Hawksworth and
Vasant Rao were standing. As the priests helped her down from the mare,
one urged her to drink again from a cup of dense liquid he carried. Her
silk robe was fragrant with scented oil, and Hawksworth saw that
decorations of saffron and sandalwood had been applied to her arms and
forehead.
It's a curious form of mourning. She's dressed and perfumed as though
for a banquet, not a funeral. And what's she drinking? From the way she
moves I'd guess it's some opium concoction.
She paused at the edge of the pit and seemed to glare for an instant at
the five women who moved around her. Then she drank again from the cup,
and calmly began removing her jewels, handing them to the priest, until
her only ornament was a necklace of dark seeds. Next the Brahmins
sprinkled her head with water from a pot and, as a bell began to toll,
started helping her into the pit. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as
she knelt next to her husband's body and lovingly cradled his head
against her lap. Her eyes were lifeless but serene.
The realization of what was happening struck Hawksworth like a blow in
the chest. But how could it be true? It was unthinkable.
Then the man who had brought them, the son, held out his hand and one
of the Brahmins bowed and handed him a burning torch. It flared
brilliantly against the dark pile of earth at the front of the pit.
God Almighty! No! Hawksworth instinctively started to reach for his
pistol.
A deafening chorus of wails burst from the waiting women as the young
man flung the torch directly by the head of the bier. Next the priests
threw more lighted torches alongside the corpse, followed by more oil.
The flames licked tentatively around the edges of the wood, then burst
across the top of the pyre. The fire swirled around the woman, and in
an instant her oil-soaked robes flared, enveloping her body and
igniting her hair. Hawksworth saw her open her mouth and say something,
words he did not understand, and then the pain overcame her and she
screamed and tried frantically to move toward the edge of the pit. As
she reached the edge she saw the hovering priests, waiting with long
poles to push her away, and she stumbled backward. Her last screams
were drowned by the chorus of wailing women as she collapsed across the
body of her husband, a human torch.
Hawksworth stepped back in horror and whirled on Vasant Rao, who stood
watching impassively.
"This is murder! Is this more of your Rajput 'tradition"?"
"It is what we call _sati_, when a brave woman joins her husband in
death. Did you hear what she said? She pronounced the words 'five, two'
as the life-spirit left her. At the moment of death we sometimes have
the gift of prophecy. She was saying this is the fifth time she has
burned herself with the same husband, and that only two times more are
required to release her from the cycle of birth and death, to render
her a perfect being."
"I can't believe she burned herself willingly."
"Of course she did. Rajput women are noble. It was the way she honored
her husband, and her caste. It was her _dharma_."
Hawksworth stared again at the pit. Priests were throwing more oil on
the raging flames, which already had enveloped the two bodies and now
licked around the edges, almost at Hawksworth's feet. The five women
seemed crazed with grief, as they held hands and moved along the edge
in a delirious dance. The heat had become intense, and Hawksworth
instinctively stepped back as tongues of fire licked over the edge of
the pit. The mourning women appeared heedless of their own danger as
they continued to circle, their light cloth robes now only inches from
the flame. The air was filled with the smell of death and burning
flesh.
They must be mad with grief. They'll catch their clothes . . .
At that instant the hem of one of the women's robes ignited. She
examined the whipping flame with a wild, empty gaze, almost as though
not seeing it. Then she turned on the other women, terror and confusion
in her eyes.
Hawksworth was already peeling off his jerkin. He'd seen
enough fires on the gun deck to know the man whose clothes caught
always panicked.
If I can reach her in time I can smother the robe before she's burned
and maimed. Her legs . . .
Before he could move, the woman suddenly turned and poised herself at
the edge of the roaring pit. She emitted one long intense wail, then
threw herself directly into the fire. At that moment the robes of a
second woman caught, and she too turned and plunged head-first into the
flames.
Merciful God! What are they doing!
The three remaining women paused for a moment. Then they clasped hands,
and, as though on a private signal, plunged over the edge into the
inferno, their hair and robes igniting like dry tinder in a furnace.
The women all clung together as the flames enveloped them.
Hawksworth tried to look again into the pit, but turned away in
revulsion.
"What in hell is happening?"
Vasant Rao's eyes were flooded with disbelief.
"They must have been his concubines. Or his other wives. Only his first
wife was allowed to have the place of honor beside his body. I've. . ."
The Rajput struggled for composure. "I've never seen so many women die
in a _sati_. It's . . ." He seemed unable to find words. "It's almost
too much."
"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."
"Have you gone mad?" Vasant Rao turned and glared at him as he spat the
words in disgust. "Why not try to die with dignity."
"Tell him."
Vasant Rao stared at Hawksworth in dumb amazement. "Do you think we're
all fools. The eclipse is foretold in the Panjika. It is the sacred
book of the Brahmins. It's used to pick auspicious days for ceremonies,
for weddings, for planting crops. Eclipses are predicted many years
ahead in the Panjika. They have been forecast in India for centuries.
Don't Europeans know an eclipse is a meeting of the sun and moon?
Nothing can change that."
"Tell him what I said. Exactly."
Vasant Rao hesitated for a few moments and then reluctantly translated.
The Rajput chieftain's face did not change and his reply was curt.
Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He says you are a fool as well as an
Untouchable."
"Tell him that if I am to die with the sun, he must kill me now. I spit
on his Brahmins and their Panjika. I say the eclipse will be this very
day. In less than three hours."
"In one _pahar_?
"Yes."
"No god, and certainly no man, can control such things. Why tell him
this invention?" Vasant Rao's voice rose with his anger. "When this
thing does not happen, you will die in even greater dishonor."
"Tell him."
Vasant Rao again translated, his voice hesitant. Raj Singh examined
Hawksworth skeptically. Then he turned and spoke to one of the tall
Rajputs standing nearby, who walked to the end of the porch and
summoned several Brahmin priests. After a conference marked by much
angry shouting and gesturing, one of the Brahmins turned and left.
Moments later he reappeared carrying a book.
"They have consulted the Panjika again." Vasant Rao pointed toward the
book as one of the Brahmins directed a stream of language at Raj Singh.
"He says there is no mistaking the date of the eclipse, and the time.
It is in the lunar month of Asvina, which is your September-October.
Here in the Deccan the month begins and ends with the full moon. The
_tithi_ or lunar day of the eclipse begins tomorrow."
As Hawksworth listened, he felt his heart begin to race.
The calculations at the observatory had a lot to say about your
Panjika's lunar calendar. And they showed how unwieldy it is compared
to the solar calendar the Arabs and Europeans use. A cycle of the moon
doesn't divide evenly into the days in a year. So your astrologers have
to keep adding and subtracting days and months to keep years the same
length. It's almost impossible to relate a lunar calendar accurately to
a solar year. Jamshid Beg, the astronomer from Samarkand, loved to
check out the predictions in the Hindu Panjika.
If I deciphered his calculations right, this is one eclipse the Panjika
called wrong. The astrologer must have miscopied his calculations. Or
maybe he just bungled one of the main rules of lunar bookkeeping. Solar
days begin at sunrise, but lunar days are different. The moon can rise
at any time of day. According to the system, the lunar day current at
sunrise is supposed to be the day that's counted. But if the moon rises
just after sunrise, and sets before sunrise the next day, then that
whole lunar "day" has to be dropped from the count.
Today was one of those days. It should have been dropped from the lunar
calendar, but it wasn't. So the prediction in the Panjika is a day off.
According to Jamshid Beg's calculations, at least. God help me if he
was wrong.
"Tell him his Panjika is false. If I'm to be killed the day of
the eclipse, he must kill me now, today."
Raj Singh listened with increasing disquiet as Vasant Rao
translated. He glanced nervously at the Brahmins and then replied in a
low voice.
Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth. "He asks what proof you have of
your forecast?"
Hawksworth looked around. What proof could there be of an
impending eclipse?
"My word is my word."
Another exchange followed.
"He is most doubtful you are wiser than the Panjika." Vasant Rao
paused for a moment, then continued. "I am doubtful as well. He says
that if you have invented a lie you are very foolish. And we will all
soon know."
"Tell him he can believe as he chooses. The eclipse will be
today."
Again there was an exchange. Then Vasant Rao turned to
Hawksworth, a mystified expression on his face.
"He says if what you say is true, then you are an _avatar_, the
incarnation of a god. If the eclipse is today, as you say, then the
village must begin to prepare immediately. People must all move
indoors. Once more, is what you say true?"
"It's true." Hawksworth strained to keep his voice confident,
and his eyes on the Rajput chieftain as he spoke. "It doesn't matter
whether he believes or not."
Raj Singh consulted again with the Brahmin priests, who had now
gathered around. They shifted nervously, and several spat to emphasize
their skepticism. Then the Rajput leader returned and spoke again to
Vasant Rao.
"He says that he will take the precaution of ordering the high
castes indoors. If what you say comes to pass, then you have saved the
village from a great harm."
Hawksworth started to speak but Vasant Rao silenced him with a
gesture.
"He also says that if what you say is a lie, he will not wait
until tomorrow to kill you. You will be buried alive at sunset today,
up to the throat. Then you will be stoned to death by the women and
children of the village. It is the death of criminal Untouchables."
As the smoke from the funeral pyre continued to drift through the
village, the high-caste men and women entered their homes and sealed
their doors. Women took their babies in their laps and began their
prayers. Only low castes and children too young to wear the sacred
thread remained outside. Even Vasant Rao was allowed to return to the
room where they had been held prisoner. Hawksworth suddenly found
himself without guards, and he wandered back to the square to look once
more at the pit where the funeral pyre had been. All that remained of
the bodies were charred skeletons.
An hour ago there was life. Now there's death. The difference is the
will to live.
And luck. The turn of chance.
Was Jamshid Beg right? If not, God help me . . .
He knelt down beside the pit. To look at death and to wait.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Prince Jadar passed the signal to the waiting guards as he
strode briskly down the stone-floored hallway and they nodded
imperceptibly in acknowledgment. There was no sound in the torch-lit
corridor save the pad of his leather-soled riding slippers.
It was the beginning of the third _pahar_, midday, and he had come
directly from the hunt when the runner brought word that Mumtaz had
entered labor. It would have been unseemly to have gone to her side, so
he had spoken briefly with the _dai_, midwife. He had overruled the
Hindu woman's suggestion that Mumtaz be made to give birth squatting by
a bed, so that a broom could be pressed against her abdomen as the
midwife rubbed her back. It was, he knew, the barbarous practice of
unbelievers, and he cursed himself for taking on the woman in the first
place. It had been a symbolic gesture for the Hindu troops, to quell
concern that all the important details attending the birth would be
Muslim. Jadar had insisted that Mumtaz be moved to a velvet mat on the
floor of her room and carefully positioned with her head north and her
feet south. In case she should die in childbirth--and he fervently
prayed she would not--this was the position in which she would be
buried, her face directed toward Mecca. He had ordered all cannon of
the fort primed with powder, to be fired in the traditional Muslim
salute if a male child was the issue.
Preparations also were underway for the naming ceremony. He had prayed
for many days that this time a son would be named. There were two
daughters already, and yet another would merely mean one more
intriguing woman to be locked away forever, for he knew he could never
allow a daughter to marry. The complications of yet another aspiring
family in the palace circle were inconceivable. The scheming Persian
Shi'ites, like the queen and her family, who had descended on Agra
would like nothing better than another opportunity to use marriage to
dilute the influence of Sunni Muslims at court.
Allah, this time it has to be a son. Hasn't everything possible been
done? And if Akman was right, that a change of residence during the
term ensures a male heir, then I'll have a son twelve times over from
this birthing. She's been in a dozen cities. And camps. I even tested
the augury of the Hindus and had a household snake killed and tossed in
the air by one of their Brahmin unbelievers, to see how it would land.
And it landed on its back, which they say augurs a boy. Also, the milk
squeezed from her breasts three days ago was thin, which the Hindus
believe foretells a son.
Still, the omens have been mixed. _The eclipse_. Why did it come a day
earlier than the Hindu astrologers had predicted? Now I realize it was
exactly seven days before the birth. No one can recall when they failed
to compute an eclipse correctly.
What did it mean? That my line will die out? Or that a son will be born
here who will one day overshadow me?
Who can know the future? What Allah wills must be.
And, he told himself, the meeting set for the third _pahar_ must still
take place, regardless of the birth. Unless he did what he had planned,
the birth would be meaningless. All the years of planning now could be
forfeited in this single campaign.
If I fail now, what will happen to the legacy of Akman, his great work
to unify India? Will India return to warring fiefdoms, neighbor pitted
against neighbor, or fall to the Shi'ites? The very air around me hints
of treachery.
With that thought he momentarily inspected the placement of his
personal crest on the thick wooden door of the fortress reception hall
and pushed it wide. A phalanx of guards trailed behind him into the
room, which he had claimed as his command post for the duration of his
stay in Burhanpur. The immense central carpet had been freshly
garlanded around the edges with flowers.
The fortress, the only secure post remaining in the city, had been
commandeered by Jadar and his hand-picked guard. His officers had taken
accommodations in the town, and the troops had erected an enormous tent
complex along the road leading into the city from the north. Their
women now swarmed over the bazaar, accumulating stores for the march
south. Bullock carts of fresh produce glutted the roads leading into
the city, for word had reached the surrounding villages that Burhanpur
was host to the retinue of the prince and his soldiers from the north--
buyers accustomed to high northern prices. The villagers also knew from
long experience that a wise man would strip his fields and gardens and
orchards now and sell, before an army on the march simply took what it
wanted.
Rumors had already reached the city that the army of Malik Ambar,
Abyssinian leader of the Deccanis, was marching north toward Burhanpur
with eighty thousand infantry and horsemen. An advance contingent was
already encamped no more than ten _kos_ south of the city.
Jadar inspected the reception room until he was certain
it was secure, with every doorway under command of his men. Then he
signaled the leader of the Rajput guard, who relayed a message to a
courier waiting outside. Finally he settled himself against an immense
velvet bolster, relishing this moment of quiet to clear his mind.
The Deccan, the central plains of India. Will they ever be ours? How
many more campaigns must there be?
He recalled with chagrin all the humiliations dealt Arangbar by the
Deccanis.
When Arangbar took the throne at Akman's death, he had announced he
would continue his father's policy of military control of the Deccan. A
general named Ghulam Adl had requested, and received, confirmation of
his existing post of Khan Khanan, "Khan of Khans," the supreme
commander of the Moghul armies in the south. To subdue the Deccan once
and for all, Arangbar had sent an additional twelve thousand cavalry
south and had given Ghulam Adl a million rupees to refurbish his army.
But in spite of these forces, the Abyssinian Malik Ambar soon had set
up a rebel capital at Ahmadnagar and declared himself prime minister.
In disgust Arangbar had taken the command from Ghulam Adl and given it
to his own son, the second oldest, Parwaz. This dissolute prince
marched south with great pomp. Once there he set up an extravagant
military headquarters, a royal court in miniature, and spent several
years drinking and bragging of his inevitable victory. Ghulam Adl had
watched this with growing resentment, and finally he succumbed to
bribes by Malik Ambar and retreated with his own army.
In anger Arangbar then appointed two other generals to march on the
Deccan, one from the north and one from the West, hoping to trap Malik
Ambar in a pincer. But the Abyssinian deftly kept them apart, and badly
defeated each in turn. Eventually both were driven back to the north,
with heavy losses.
This time, on the advice of Queen Janahara, Arangbar transferred his
son Parwaz out of the Deccan, to Allahbad, and in his place sent Prince
Jadar. The younger prince had marched on the Deccan with forty thousand
additional troops to supplement the existing forces.
When Jadar and his massive army reached Burhanpur, Malik Ambar wisely
proposed a truce and negotiations. He returned the fort at Ahmadnagar
to the Moghul and withdrew his troops. Arangbar was jubilant and
rewarded Jadar with sixteen _lakhs_ of rupees and a prize diamond.
Triumphant, Jadar had returned to Agra and begun to think of becoming
the next Moghul. That had been three long years ago.
But Malik Ambar had the cunning of a jackal, and his "surrender" had
been merely a ruse to remove the Moghul troops again to the north. This
year he had waited for the monsoon, when conventional armies could not
move rapidly, and again risen in rebellion, easily driving Ghulam Adl's
army north from Ahmadnagar, reclaiming the city, and laying siege to
its Moghul garrison. The despairing Arangbar again appealed to Jadar to
lead troops south to relieve the permanent forces of Ghulam Adl. After
demanding and receiving a substantial increase in _mansab _rank and
personal cavalry, Jadar had agreed.
The wide wooden door of the reception hall opened and Ghulam Adl strode
regally into the room, wearing a gold- braided turban with a feather
and a great sword at his belt. His beard was longer than Jadar had
remembered, and now it had been reddened with henna--perhaps, Jadar
thought, to hide the gray. But his deep-set eyes were still haughty and
self-assured, and his swagger seemed to belie reports he had barely
escaped with his life from the besieged fortress at Ahmadnagar only
five weeks before.
Ghulam Adl's gaze quickly swept the room, but his eyes betrayed no
notice of the exceptional size of Jadar's guard. With an immense show
of dignity he nodded a perfunctory bow, hands clasped at the sparkling
jewel of his turban.
"Salaam, Highness. May Allah lay His hand on both our swords and temper
them once more with fire." He seated himself easily, as he might with
an equal, and when no servant came forward, he poured himself a glass
of wine from the decanter that waited on the carpet beside his bolster.
Is there anything, he wondered, I despise more than these presumptuous
young princes from Agra? "I rejoice your journey was swift. You've
arrived in time to witness my army savage the Abyssinian unbeliever and
his rabble."
"How many troops are left?" Jadar seemed not to hear the boast.
"Waiting are fifty thousand men, Highness, and twenty thousand horse,
ready to tender their lives at my command." Ghulam Adl delicately
shielded his beard as he drank off the glass of wine and--when again no
servant appeared-- poured himself another.
Jadar remained expressionless.
"My reports give you only five thousand men left, most _chelas_.
Chelas, from the Hindu slang for "slave," was a reference to the
mercenary troops, taken in childhood and raised in the camp, that
commanders maintained as a kernel of their forces. Unlike soldiers from
the villages, they were loyal even in misfortune, because they
literally had no place to return to. "What troops do you have from the
_mansabdars_, who've been granted stipends from their _jagir_ estate
revenue to maintain men and horse?"
"Those were the ones I mean, Highness." Ghulam Adl's hand trembled
slightly as he again lifted the wineglass. "The _mansabdars_ have
assured me we have only to sound the call, and their men will muster.
In due time."
"Then pay is not in arrears for their men and cavalry."
"Highness, it's well known pay must always be in arrears. How else are
men's loyalties to be guaranteed? A commander foolish enough to pay his
troops on time will lose them at the slightest setback, since they have
no reason to remain with him in adversity." Ghulam Adl eased his
wineglass on the carpet and bent forward. "I concede some of the
_mansabdars_ may have allowed matters of pay to slip longer than is
wise. But they assure me that when the time is right their men will
muster nonetheless."
"Then why not call the muster? In another twenty days Ambar's troops
will be encamped at our doorstep. He could well control all lands south
of the Narbada River."
And that, Ghulam Adl smiled to himself, is precisely the plan.
He thought of the arrangement that had been worked out. Jadar was to be
kept in Burhanpur for another three weeks, delayed by any means
possible. By then Malik Ambar would have the city surrounded, all
access cut off. The Imperial troops would be isolated and demoralized.
No troops would be forthcoming from the _mansabdars_. Only promises of
troops. Cut off from Agra and provisions, Jadar would have no choice
but to sign a treaty. The paper had already been prepared. Malik Ambar
would rule the Deccan from his new capital at Ahmadnagar, and Ghulam
Adl would be appointed governor of all provinces north from Ahmadnagar
to the Narbada River. With their combined troops holding the borders,
no Moghul army could ever again challenge the Deccan. Ghulam Adl knew
the _mansabdars_ would support him, because he had offered to cut their
taxes in half. He had neglected to specify for how long.
"I respectfully submit the time for muster is premature, Highness.
Crops are not yet in. The revenues of the _mansabdars'_ _jagir_ estates
will suffer if men are called now." Ghulam Adl shifted uncomfortably.
"They'll have no revenues at all if they don't muster immediately. I'll
confiscate the _jagir_ of any _mansabdar_ who has not mustered his men
and cavalry within seven days." Jadar watched Ghulam Adl's throat
muscles tense, and he asked himself if a _jagir_ granted by the Moghul
could be legally confiscated. Probably not. But the threat would serve
to reveal loyalties, and reveal them quickly.
"But there's no possible way to pay the men now, Highness." Ghulam Adl
easily retained his poise. Hold firm and this aspiring young upstart
will waver and then agree. Give him numbers. First make it sound
hopeless, then show him a way he can still win. "There's not enough
silver in all the Deccan. Let me give you some idea of the problem.
Assume it would require a year's back pay to muster the troops, not
unreasonable since most of the _mansabdars_ are at least two years
behind now. The usual yearly allowance for cavalry here is three
hundred rupees for a Muslim and two hundred and forty for a Hindu. You
will certainly need to raise a minimum of thirty thousand men from the
_mansabdars_. Assuming some loyal troops might possibly muster on notes
of promise, you'd still need almost fifty _lakhs_ of rupees. An
impossible sum. It's clear the _mansabdars_ won't have the revenues to
pay their men until the fall crops are harvested."
"Then I'll confiscate their _jagirs_ now and pay the troops myself. And
deduct the sum from their next revenues."
"That's impossible. The money is nowhere to be found." Ghulam Adl
realized with relief that Jadar was bluffing; the prince could not
possibly raise the money needed. He shifted closer and smiled warmly.
"But listen carefully. If we wait but two months, everything will be
changed. Then it'll be simple to squeeze the revenue from the
_mansabdars_, and we can pay the men ourselves if we need. Until then
we can easily contain the Abyssinian and his rabble. Perhaps we could
raise a few men and horse from the _mansabdars_ now, but frankly I
advise against it. Why trouble them yet? With the troops we have we can
keep Malik Ambar diverted for weeks, months even. Then when the time is
right we sound the call, march south with our combined forces, and
drive him into the southern jungles forever."
But that call will raise no men, Ghulam Adl told himself, not a single
wagon driver. It has been agreed. "We'll wait a few weeks until Ambar
has his supply lines extended. Then we'll begin to harass him. In no
time he'll begin to fall back to Ahmadnagar to wait for winter. And by
that time we'll have our full strength. We'll march in force and crush
him. I'll lead the men personally. You need never leave Burhanpur,
Highness." He took another sip of wine. "Though I daresay its pleasures
must seem rustic for one accustomed to the more luxurious diversions of
Agra."
Jadar examined the commander and a slight, knowing smile played across
his lips. "Let me propose a slight alternative." He began evenly. "I
will lead the army this time, and you will remain here at the fortress.
I called you here today to notify you that as of this moment you are
relieved of your command and confined to the fort." Jadar watched
Ghulam Adl stiffen and his sly grin freeze on his face. "I will
assemble the army myself and march south in ten days."
"This is a weak jest, Highness." Ghulam Adl tried to laugh. "No one
knows the Deccan the way I and my commanders know it. The terrain is
treacherous."
"Your knowledge of the terrain admittedly is excellent. You and your
commanders have retreated the length of the Deccan year after year.
This time I will use my own generals. Abdullah Khan will command the
advance guard, with three thousand horse from our own troops. Abul
Hasan will take the left flank, and Raja Vikramajit the right. I will
personally command the center." Jadar fixed Ghulam Adl squarely. "You
will be confined to the fort, where you'll send no ciphers to Ambar.
Your remaining troops will be divided and put under our command. You
will order it in writing today and I will send the dispatches."
"For your sake I trust this is a jest, Highness. You dare not carry it
out." Ghulam Adl slammed his glass onto the carpet, spilling his wine.
The Rajputs around Jadar stiffened but made no move. "I have the full
support of the Moghul himself. Your current position in Agra is already
talked about here in the south. Do you think we're so far away we hear
nothing? Your return this time, if you are allowed to return, will be
nothing like the grand celebrations three years ago. If I were you, I'd
be marching back now. Leave the Deccan to those who know it."
"You're right about Agra on one point. It is far away. And this
campaign is mine, not the Moghul's."
"You'll never raise the troops, young prince: Only I can induce the
_mansabdars_ to muster."
"I'll muster the men. With full pay."
"You'll muster nothing, Highness. You'll be Ambar's prisoner inside a
month. I can swear it. If you are still alive." Ghulam Adl bowed low
and his hand shot for his sword. By the time it touched the handle the
Rajputs were there. He was circled by drawn blades. Jadar watched
impassively for a moment, and then signaled the guards to escort Ghulam
Adl from the audience room.
"I'll see you dead." He shouted over his shoulder as the men dragged
him toward the door. "Within the month."
Jadar watched Ghulam Adl's turban disappear through the torchlit
opening and down the corridor. His sword remained on the carpet, where
it had been removed by the Rajput guards. Jadar stared at it for a
moment, admiring the silver trim along the handle, and it reminded him
of the silver shipment. And the Englishman.
Vasant Rao blundered badly with the English captain. He should have
found a way to disarm him in advance. Always disarm a _feringhi_. Their
instincts are too erratic. The whole scenario fell apart after he
killed the headman of the dynasty. My Rajput games almost became a war.
But what happened in the village? Did the _feringhi_ work sorcery? Why
was the caravan released so suddenly? The horsemen I had massed in the
valley, in case of an emergency, panicked after the eclipse began. They
became just so many terrified Hindus. Then suddenly the caravan
assembled and left, with Rajputs from the village riding guard,
escorting them all the way back to the river.
And even now Vasant Rao refuses to talk about what really happened. It
seems his honor is too besmirched. He refuses even to eat with the
other men.
Allah the Merciful. Rajputs and their cursed honor.
But I've learned what I need to know about the English _feringhi_. His
nerve is astonishing. How could he dare refuse to attend my morning
durbar audience in the reception room? Should I accept his claim that
he's an ambassador and therefore I should come to him. Should I simply
have him brought before me?
No. I have a better idea. But tomorrow. After the child is born and
I've sent runners to the _mansabdars_ . . .
A member of Mumtaz's guard burst through the doorway, then remembered
himself and salaamed deeply to the prince. Guards around Jadar already
had their swords half drawn.
"Forgive a fool, Highness." He fell to his knees, just in case. "I'm
ordered to report that your son is born. The _dai_ says he's perfectly
formed and has the lungs of a cavalry commander."
Cheers swept the room, and the air blossomed with flying turbans. Jadar
motioned the terrified man closer and he nervously knelt again, this
time directly before Jadar.
"The _dai_ respectfully asks if it would please Your Highness to
witness the cord-cutting ceremony. She suggests a gold knife, instead
of the usual silver."
Jadar barely heard the words, but he did recall that tradition allowed
the midwife to keep the knife.
"She can have her knife of gold, and you are granted a thousand gold
_mohurs_. But the cord will be cut with a string." This ceremony must
be a signal to all India, Jadar told himself, and he tried to recall
exactly the tradition started by Akman for newborn Moghul princes. The
birth cord of all Akman's three sons was cut with a silken string, then
placed in a velvet bag with writings from the Quran, and kept under the
new child's pillow for forty days.
The guard salaamed once more, his face in the carpet, and then scurried
toward the door, praising Allah. As Jadar rose and made his way toward
the corridor, a chant of "Jadar-o-Akbar," "Jadar is Great," rose from
the cheering Rajputs. Every man knew that with an heir, the prince was
at last ready to claim his birthright. And they would fight beside him
for it.
Mumtaz lay against a bolster, a fresh scarf tied around her head and a
roller bound about her abdomen, taking a draft of strong, garlic-
scented asafetida gum as Jadar came into the room. He immediately knew
she was well, for this anti-cold precaution was taken only after the
placenta was expelled and the mother's well-being assured. Next to her
side was a box of betel leaves, rolled especially with myrrh to purge
the taste of the asafetida.
"My congratulations, Highness." The _dai_ salaamed awkwardly from the
bedside. "May it please you to know the child is blind of an eye."
Jadar stared at her dumbfounded, then remembered she was a local Hindu
midwife, from Gujarat province, where the birth of a boy is never
spoken of, lest the gods grow jealous of the parents' good fortune and
loose the Evil Eye. Instead, boys were announced by declaring the child
blind in one eye. No precautions against divine jealousy were thought
necessary for a girl child, a financial liability no plausible god
would covet.
The _dai_ returned to washing Mumtaz's breasts, stroking them carefully
with wet blades of grass. Jadar knew this local ritual was believed to
ensure fortune for the child and he did not interrupt. He merely
returned Mumtaz's weak smile and strode to the silver basin resting by
the bedside, where another midwife was washing his new son in a murky
mixture of gram flour and water.
The frightened woman dried off the child, brushed his head with
perfumed oil, and placed him on a thin pillow of quilted calico for
Jadar to see. He was red and wrinkled and his dark eyes were startled.
But he was a prince.
Jadar touched the infant's warm hand as he examined him for
imperfections. There were none.
Someday, my first son, you may rule India as Moghul. If we both live
that long.
"Is he well?" Mumtaz spoke at last, her normally shrill voice now
scarcely above a whisper. "Are you pleased?"
"He'll do for now." Jadar smiled as he examined her tired face. She had
never seemed as beautiful as she did at this moment. He knew there was
no way he could ever show his great love for her, but he knew she
understood. And returned it. "Do these unbelievers know enough to
follow Muslim tradition?"
"Yes. A mullah has been summoned to sound the _azan_, the call to
prayer, in his ear."
"But a male child must first be announced with artillery. So he'll
never be afraid to fight." Jadar wasn't sure how much belief he put in
all these Muslim traditions, but the troops expected it and every
ceremony for this prince had to be observed. Lest superstitions begin
that he was somehow ill-fated. Superstitions are impossible to bury.
"This one is a prince. He will be greeted with cannon. Then I'll
immediately have his horoscope cast--for the Hindu troops--and schedule
his naming ceremony--for the Believers."
"What will you name him?"
"His first name will be Nushirvan. You can pick the others."
"Nushirvan was a haughty Persian king. And it's an ugly name."
"It's the name I've chosen." Jadar smiled wickedly, still mulling over
what name he would eventually pick.
Mumtaz did not argue. She had already selected the name Salaman, the
handsome young man Persian legends said was once created by a wise
magician. Salaman was an ideal lover. Whatever name Jadar chose,
Salaman would be his second name. And the one she would call him all
the coming years in the _zenana_, when he would creep into her bed
after Jadar had departed for his own quarters.
And we'll see what name he answers to seven years hence, on his
circumcision day.
The _dai _was busy spooning a mixture of honey, ghee, and opium into
the child's mouth. Then a drop of milk was pressed from Mumtaz's breast
and rubbed on the breast of the wet nurse. Jadar watched the ritual
with approval. Now for the most important tradition, the one begun by
Akman.
"Is the wrap ready?"
Akman had believed that the first clothes a Moghul prince wore should
be fashioned from an old garment of a Muslim holy man, and he had
requested a garment from the revered Sayyid Ali Shjirazi for his first
son. The custom had become fixed for the royal family.
"It's here. The woman in Surat heard a child was due and had this sent
to me in Agra before we left." She pointed to a folded loincloth, which
had been washed to a perfect white. "It was once worn by that Sufi you
adore, Samad."
"Good. I'm glad it's from Samad. But what woman in Surat do you mean?"
"You know who she is." Mumtaz looked around the crowded room, and
switched from Turki to Persian. "She sent the weekly reports of
Mukarrab Khan's affairs, and handled all the payments to those who
collected information in Surat."
Jadar nodded almost imperceptibly. "That one. Of course I remember her.
Her reports were always more reliable than the Shahbandar's. I find I
can never trust any number that thief gives me. I always have to ask
myself what he would wish it to be, and then adjust. But what happened
to her? I learned a month ago that Mukarrab Khan was being sent to Goa.
I think a certain woman of power in Agra finally realized I was
learning everything that went on at the port before she was, and
thought Mukarrab Khan had betrayed her."
"The Surat woman didn't go to Goa with Mukarrab Khan. She made him
divorce her. It was a scandal." Mumtaz smiled mysteriously. "You should
come to the women's quarters more often, and learn the news."
"But what happened to her?"
"There's a rumor in Surat that the Shahbandar, Mirza Nuruddin, is
hiding her in the women's quarters of his estate house. But actually
she left for Agra the next day, by the northern road. I'm very worried
what may happen to her there."
"How do you know all this? It sounds like bazaar gossip."
"It's all true enough. She sent a pigeon, to the fortress here. The
message was waiting when we arrived."
"It's good she's out of Surat. With Mukarrab Khan gone, she's no longer
any help there. But I've always wanted to thank her somehow. She's one
of the best. And our only woman. I don't think anyone ever guessed what
she really did."
"I will thank her for you. Her message was a request. Something only I
could arrange. A favor for a favor."
"And what was that?"
"Just something between women, my love. Nothing to do with armies and
wars." Mumtaz shifted on the bolster and took a perfumed pan. "Allah,
I'm tired."
Jadar studied her face again, marveling as always how it seemed to
attest to her spirit.
"Then rest. I hope the cannon won't disturb you."
"It should have been another girl. Then there'd be no cannon."
"And no heir." Jadar turned to leave and Mumtaz eased herself back on
the bolster. Then she lifted herself again and called Jadar.
"Who is escorting the English _feringhi_ to Agra?"
"Unfortunately it's Vasant Rao. And just when I need him. But he
demanded to do it personally."
"I'm glad." Mumtaz smiled weakly. "Have him see one of my servants
before they leave."
"Why should I bother him with that?"
"To humor me." She paused. "Is this _feringhi_ handsome?"
"Why do you ask?"
"A woman's curiosity."
"I haven't seen him yet. I do suspect he's quick. Perhaps too quick.
But I'll find out more tomorrow. And then I'll decide what I have to
do." Jadar paused at the doorway, while the dai pulled aside the
curtains that had been newly hung. "Sleep. And watch over my new
prince. He's our first victory in the Deccan. I pray to Allah he's not
our last."
He turned and was gone. Minutes later the cannon salutes began.
Hawksworth began to count the stone stairs after the third
twisting turn of the descending corridor, and his eyes searched through
the smoke and flickering torchlight for some order in the arched
doorways that opened out on each level as they went farther and farther
down. Ail object struck him across the face and his hand plunged for
his sword, before he remembered he had left it in his quarters, on
Jadar's command. Then he heard the high-pitched shriek of a bat and saw
it flutter into the shadows. The torchbearers were ten Rajputs of
Jadar's personal guard, armed with the usual swords and half-pikes.
None spoke as their footsteps clattered through the musty subterranean
air.
Hawksworth felt the dankness against the beads of sweat forming on his
skin. As the old memory of a dark prison welled up, he suddenly
realized he was terrified.
Why did I agree to meet him here? This is not "the lower level of the
fortress." This is a dungeon. But he can't detain me, not with a safe
conduct pass from the Moghul.
Still, he might try. If he wants to keep me out of Agra while he's away
on campaign. And he may. I already smell this campaign is doomed.
It was the evening of Hawksworth's third day in the Burhanpur fortress.
When the convoy arrived at the village of Bahadurpur, three _kos_ west
of Burhanpur, they had been met by Jadar's personal guards and escorted
through the city and into the walled compound of the fortress. He had
been given spacious, carpeted quarters, always guarded, and had seen no
one, not even Vasant Rao. Communications with Jadar had been by
courier, and finally they had agreed on a neutral meeting place. Jadar
had suggested a location in the palace where they would have privacy,
yet be outside his official quarters. Since they would meet as
officials of state, Jadar had insisted on no weapons.
No visible weapons, Hawksworth told himself, glad he wore boots.
The corridor narrowed slightly, then ended abruptly at a heavy wooden
door. Iron braces were patterned over the face of the door and in its
center was a small window, secured with heavy bars. Armed Rajputs stood
on either side and as Hawksworth's party approached they snapped about,
hands at their swords. Then the leader of Hawksworth's guards spoke
through the smoke-filled air, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"Krishna plays his flute."
A voice came from the sentries at the door.
"And longing _gopis_ burn."
Again Hawksworth's guard.
"With a maid's desire."
Immediately the sentries slid back the ancient iron bolt that spanned
the face of the door. Then came the rasping
scrape of another bolt on the inside being released. When he heard the
sound, Hawksworth felt a surge of fear and stared around wildly at the
faces of the guards. They all stood menacingly, with a regal bearing
and expressionless faces. Each man had his hand loosely on his sword.
The door creaked slowly inward, and Hawksworth realized it was almost a
foot thick and probably weighed tons. The guards motioned him forward
and stood stiffly waiting for him to move. He calculated his chances
one more time, and with a shrug, walked through.
The room was enormous, with a high vaulted stone ceiling and a back
wall lost in its smoky recesses. Rows of oil lamps trailed down the
walls on either side of the door. The walls themselves were heavy gray
blocks of cut stone, carefully smoothed until they fit seamlessly
together without mortar. He asked himself how air reached the room,
then he traced the lamp smoke upward and noticed it disappeared through
ornate carvings that decorated the high roof of the chamber.
A heavy slam echoed off the walls and he turned to see the door had
been sealed. As his eyes adjusted to the lamplight he searched the
chamber. All he could see were long, neat rows of bundles, lining the
length of the stone floor. With a shock he realized they were the
bundles from the caravan. Otherwise the room seemed empty.
At that moment he caught a flicker of movement, a tall figure at the
far end of the chamber, passing shadowlike among the bundles, an
apparition. Then a voice sounded through the dense air.
"At last we meet." The stone walls threw back an eerie echo. "Is the
place to your liking?"
"I prefer sunlight." Hawksworth felt the cool of the room envelop his
skin. "Where I can see who I'm talking to."
"You are speaking to Prince Shapur Firdawsi Jadar, third son of the
Moghul. It's customary to salaam, Captain- General Hawksworth."
"I speak for His Majesty, King James the First of England. The sons of
kings normally bow before him."
"When I meet him, perhaps I will bow." Jadar emerged from among the
bundles. He had an elegant short beard and seemed much younger,
somehow, than Hawksworth had expected. "I'm surprised to see you alive,
Captain. How is it you still live while so many of my Rajputs died?"
"I live by my wits, not by my caste."
Jadar roared with genuine delight.
"Spoken like a Moghul." Then he sobered. "You'd be wise never to say
that to a Rajput, however. I often wonder how an army of Moghul troops
would fare against a division of Hindu unbelievers. I pray to Allah I
never find out." Jadar suddenly slipped a dagger from his waist and
held it loosely, fingering the blade. "_Feringhi_ Christians would be
another matter entirely, however. Did you come unarmed, Captain, as we
agreed?"
"I did." Hawksworth stared at the knife in dismay.
"Come, Captain, please don't ask me to believe you'd be such a fool."
Jadar slipped the dagger into his other hand with a quick twist and
tossed it atop one of the bundles. "But this meeting must be held in
trust. I ask that you leave your weapon beside mine."
Hawksworth hesitated, then slowly reached into his boot and withdrew a
small stiletto, the Portuguese knife left at the observatory. As he
dropped it beside Jadar's weapon, he noticed the prince's knife was
missing half its handle.
Jadar smiled. "You know, Captain, if I killed you here, now, there
would be no witness to the deed, save your Christian God."
"Do you plan to try?"
"I do not 'try' to do anything, Captain." Jadar opened his hand to
reveal that a dagger remained. It was the other side of his original
knife, which had been two blades fitted to appear as one. "What I do,
Captain, is merely a matter of what I decide to do. Right now I have
serious misgivings about your intentions in India."
Jadar's blade glinted in the lamplight as he moved toward Hawksworth.
"Is this your greeting for any who refuse to salaam?"
Hawksworth took a step backward toward the door, feinted toward his
boot, and rose with a cocked pistol leveled directly at Jadar. "What
game is this?"
The prince exploded with laughter, and before Hawksworth caught the
quick motion of his arm, the knife thudded deeply into the wooden door
behind him.
"Well done, Captain. Very well done." Jadar beamed in appreciation.
"You are, as I suspected, truly without the smallest shred of Rajput
honor. Put away your pistol. I think we can talk. And by the way, there
are twenty matchlocks trained on you right now." He waved toward the
vaulted ceiling of the crypt, where dark musket barrels were visible
through slits in the carved decoration. He barked a command in Urdu and
the barrels slowly withdrew.
"Why don't we talk about releasing me and my chest to travel on to
Agra." Hawksworth lowered the pistol, but kept it still cocked, in his
hand.
"Agra, you say? Captain, there are already Europeans in Agra." Jadar
leaned against one of the bundles. "Portuguese. They've been there many
years. How many more Christians can India endure? You infidel Europeans
are beginning to annoy me more than I can tell you."
"What do you mean?" Hawksworth tried to read Jadar's eyes, remembering
Shirin's story of the Persians and Portuguese both hating the prince.
"Tell me about your English ships, Captain." Jadar seemed not to hear
Hawksworth's question. "Tell me how you defeated the Portuguese so
easily."
"English frigates are better designed than the Portugals' galleons. And
English seamen are better gunners and sailors."
"Words, Captain. Easy words. Perhaps the Portuguese allowed themselves
to be defeated. This one time. Waiting for a bigger prize. How can you
know?"
"Is that what the Portugals say happened?"
"I asked you."
"A well-manned English frigate is the match of any two galleons."
"Then how many of your 'frigates' would it take to blockade the port at
Goa?"
Hawksworth saw a small flicker in Jadar's eyes as the prince waited for
the answer. "I think a dozen could do it. If we caught their fleet in
the harbor, before they could put out to sea."
"Christians typically exaggerate their strength. How many would it
really take? Five times what you've said? Ten times?"
"I said it depends on seamanship. And surprise."
"Christians always seem to have answers. Particularly when there is no
answer." Jadar turned and pointed to the stacks of bundles. "By the
way, do you know what the caravan carried, Captain?"
"I doubt very much it was lead. So it's probably silver." Hawksworth
marveled at the way Jadar seemed to lead the conversation, always
getting what he wanted before what he wanted had become obvious. And
then quickly moving on.
"Your 'probably' is exactly right. And do you know why it carried
silver?"
"You have a long supply line. You needed to buy supplies and arms."
"I see you don't think like a Moghul after all." Jadar moved closer,
studying Hawksworth's eyes. "Why bother to buy what I could easily
take? No, my Christian captain, or ambassador, or spy, I needed men.
What is it about human character that allows men to be bought like so
many _nautch_ girls?"
"Not every man is born to wealth." Hawksworth glared directly at Jadar,
beginning to find the conversation growing sinister.
"And few men are without a price, Captain. I think I could even find
yours if I looked enough for it." Jadar paused reflectively for a
moment, then continued. "Tell me, should I be pleased with your
presence here?"
"You have no reason not to be. My only mission here is to open trade
between our kings."
"You know your 'mission' has brought about many deaths since you landed
in India. The most recent were the deaths of forty of my best men."
"I didn't order the attack on the caravan. Those men's lives are on the
head of whoever did." Hawksworth stopped, and as he looked at Jadar
something clicked in his mind. Something about the attack that had
bothered him ever since.
"Your caravan was attacked by bandits, Captain. Who could order them to
do anything? But the men I provided as escort gave their lives
protecting you."
"Those men were murdered. They never had a chance."
Hawksworth's mind was racing. Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle began
to fall together. Everything fit. Vasant Rao had been too nervous. He
must have known the attack was coming, but not when. It was all a game.
Some deadly serious war game. And none of the other men knew.
"But I think I have an idea who did order the attack." Hawksworth
continued, glaring at Jadar. "And you do too."
"Your Rajputs guards were growing careless, Captain. They made a
foolish mistake. What commander can afford men who make mistakes? Even
if they are Rajputs. All men grow complacent if they are never tested."
"It was vicious."
"It was discipline. Security has improved considerably here since that
incident." Jadar continued evenly, ignoring the look on Hawksworth's
face. "The only real difficulties that night were caused by you. It was
very imprudent of you to kill one of the bandits with a pistol. They
were instructed merely to disarm you. You were completely safe. But
after your rash killing it became much more difficult for me to try to
rescue you. And after the eclipse, it actually become impossible."
Jadar wanted to ask Hawksworth what had really happened, but he
suppressed the impulse. "Still, after your first mistake, you appear to
have handled yourself reasonably well. That's why we're having this
talk."
"In a dungeon? Surrounded by muskets?"
"In a room surrounded by silver. More, I suspect, than you have ever
known. How many sailing ships, your 'frigates,' could be bought with
this much silver?"
"I don't know exactly. I do know English frigates are not for sale."
"Come, Captain. Would you have me believe your king never has allies
who share a common cause? That he never aids those who war against his
enemies?"
"Allies have been known to become enemies. If they grow too ambitious.
Just who would your frigates, assuming you had them and the trained
seamen to man them, be used against? The Portugals? Or against the
English eventually?"
"Sometimes, unfortunately, an ally becomes a tyrant, forcing you to act
in your own interest. I know it all too well." Jadar was silent for a
moment, then he smiled smoothly. "But tell me about your plans when you
reach Agra. You'll have no frigates there. What do you hope to gain?"
"Open trade. That and nothing more. England wants no war with the
Portugals."
"Truly? I believe they may think otherwise. Time will tell. There may
be changes in Agra soon. The Christian Portuguese may find their time
has run out. If that happens, what will you do?"
"I'll wait and see."
"There may be no time to 'wait,' English Captain Hawksworth. The times
may require you to choose. If the Portuguese decide to act in the
interest of one party here, will England act in the interest of the
other? I want to know."
"The king of England acts in his own interest."
"But your king will not be here. You will be here."
"Then I will act in his interest." Hawksworth fixed Jadar squarely.
"And the king of England is not interested in who rules India. Only in
free trade between us."
"But the one who rules India will have the power to permit or deny that
trade. You know, there's an Indian folk tale of a Brahmin who once
discovered a tiger in a well. He gave aid to the tiger, helped him
escape from the well, and years later when the Brahmin was starving the
tiger brought him a necklace of gold and jewels won from a rich man in
a battle to the death. Do you understand?"
"I understand. But I still serve my king first."
Jadar listened silently, but his eyes were intent.
"And that king is English. For now." Jadar filled the last words with a
tone of presumption that left Hawksworth uncomfortable. "But enough.
Let's talk of other matters. I assume you are aware the Portuguese will
probably try to have you assassinated when you reach Agra. Already
there are many rumors about you there. Perhaps you should remember your
own personal interests too. As well as your king's. One day, I think,
we will meet again. If you are still alive."
"And if you are still alive."
Jadar smiled lightly. "We're both difficult to kill. So we both must
think of the future. Now I have a last question for you."
Jadar retrieved his knife from atop the bundles and deftly ripped open
the side of one. Rolls of new silver coin glistened in the light. "What
do you see in this package, Ambassador Hawksworth?"
"A king's ransom in silver."
"I'm surprised at you, Captain. For a seaman you have remarkably bad
eyesight. What you see here, what came with you from Surat, is lead,
Captain. Ingots of lead."
"That forty men died to protect."
"Those men died protecting you, Captain. Don't you remember? Your
safety is very important to me. So important that it may be necessary
to keep you under guard here in the fortress until this campaign is
over. Look again at the bundle and tell me once more what you see."
"You can't hold me here. I have a safe conduct pass from the Moghul
himself."
"Do you? Good. In that case there shouldn't be any difficulty. I'll
only need to examine it to make sure it's not a forgery. There should
be an opportunity sometime after I return from this campaign."
Hawksworth examined Jadar and realized the threat was not empty.
"There's no reason for me to stay. You have your lead."
Jadar smiled an empty grin, but with a trace of bizarre warmth. "At
last we're beginning to understand each other. Neither of us has a
Rajput's honor." He tossed Hawksworth the Portuguese stiletto. "An
interesting knife. Did you know it took me almost two weeks to find out
for sure who really hired the assassin? And for all that trouble it was
exactly who you'd expect."
Hawksworth examined him in amazement, and decided to gamble another
guess.
"I suppose I haven't thanked you yet for saving us from the Portugals'
ambush on the river, the day we made landfall."
Jadar waved his hand in dismissal. "Mere curiosity, nothing more. If I
had allowed them to kill you, we could never have had this interesting
talk. But you still have many troubles ahead."
"We both do."
"But I know who my enemies are, Captain. That's the difference."
The door had begun to swing slowly inward.
"Yes, these are interesting times, Captain. You may find it difficult
to stay alive, but somehow I think you'll manage for a while longer."
Hawksworth watched nervously as the Rajput guards filed into the room
and stationed themselves by the door.
"I plan to march south in ten days. You would be wise to leave tomorrow
for the north, while the roads are still secure. Vasant Rao has asked
to accompany you, and I'm afraid I have no choice but to humor him. I
need him here, but he is a man of temperament. I will provide guards
for you as far north as the Narbada River. After that he will hire his
own horsemen. I'll give him a letter for a raja in Mandu, who can
supply whatever he needs." Jadar studied Hawksworth one last time, his
eyes calculating. "We both have difficult times ahead, but I think
we'll meet again. Time may change a few things for both of us."
As Hawksworth passed through the open doorway, he looked back to see
the prince leaning easily aginst a stack of bundles, flipping a large
silver coin. And suddenly he wanted to leave the fortress of Burhanpur
more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
The next morning Vasant Rao and forty horsemen were waiting with
Hawksworth's cart. By midday they had left Burhanpur far behind, and
were well on the way north. The journey north through Mandu, Ujjain,
and Gwalior to Agra normally took six weeks, but when roads were dry it
was an easy trip.
Two days later five prominent _mansabdars_ in the northern Deccan died
painfully in separate ambushes by bandits. Their _jagirs_ were
confiscated immediately by Prince Jadar. Ten days from that time he
moved south with eighty thousand men and thirty thousand horse.
BOOK FOUR
AGRA
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nadir Sharif leaned uneasily against the rooftop railing of his
sprawling riverside palace, above the second-floor _zenana_, and
absently watched his Kabuli pigeons wing past the curve of the Jamuna
River, headed toward the Red Fort. They swept over the heavy
battlements at the river gate and then veered precisely upward, along
the sheer eastern wall of the fort, until they reached the gold minaret
atop the Jasmine Tower, the private quarters of Queen Janahara. They
circled her tower once, then coalesced into a plumed spear driving
directly upward toward the dawn-tinged cloud bank that hovered over
Agra from the east.
Imported Kabuli pigeons, with their flawless white eyes and blue-tipped
wings, were Nadir Sharifs secret joy. Unlike the inferior local breeds
of the other devoted pigeon-fliers along the west bank of the Jamuna,
Agra's palace-lined showplace, his Kabulis did not flit aimlessly from
rooftop to rooftop on their daily morning flight. After he opened the
shutters on their rooftop grillwork cage, they would trace a single
circle of his palace, next wing past the Red Fort in a salute to the
queen, then simply disappear into the infinite for fully half a day,
returning as regally as they had first taken wing.
Nadir Sharif was the prime minister of the Moghul empire, the brother
of Queen Janahara, and the father of Prince Jadar's favorite wife,
Mumtaz. Even in the first light of dawn there was no mistaking he was
Persian and proud. The early sun glanced off his finely woven gauze
cape and quickened a warm glow in the gold thread laced through his
yellow cloak and his pastel morning turban. His quick eyes, plump face,
and graying moustache testified to his almost sixty years of life,
thirty spent at the Moghul court as close adviser to Arangbar and,
before that, to Arangbar's father, the great empire-builder Akman. In
power and authority he was exceeded only by the Moghul himself.
Nadir Sharifs palace was deliberately situated next to the Red Fort,
just around the broad curve of the Jamuna. The Red Fort, home of the
Moghul, was a vast, rambling fortress whose river side towered over a
hundred feet above the western curve of the Jamuna. From Nadir Sharifs
rooftop the view of the river side of the fort and Arangbar's _darshan_
window was unobstructed.
Darshan was the dawn appearance Arangbar made daily at a special
balcony in the east wall of the Red Fort, next to the river gate. It
was strict custom that the chief officials of Arangbar's court also
appear daily, on a high platform just beneath the _darshan_ balcony,
where along with the Moghul they greeted the well-wishers who streamed
in through the river gate and provided visual confirmation that India's
rule was intact.
The square below the balcony--a grassy expanse between the side of the
fort and the river wall, where Arangbar held noontime elephant fights
and, on Tuesdays, executions by specially trained elephants--had already
filled almost to capacity. Agra's most prominent noblemen were there,
as prudence required, and today there also were clusters of important
visitors. Several Rajput chieftains from the northwest, astride
prancing Arabian horses, passed regally through the river gate and
assumed prominent positions. Then a path was cleared for a large
embassy of Safavid Persian diplomats, each of whose palanquins was
borne by four slaves in gleaming velvet liveries; next several desert
Uzbek khans in leather headdress rode into the square; and finally
three Portuguese Jesuits in black cassocks trooped through the river
gate and moved imperiously to the front of the crowd.
Nadir Sharif watched as his pigeons were swallowed by the morning haze
and then settled himself onto a canopied couch to observe _darshan_.
The eunuchs of the _zenana_ had whispered that this morning would be
different, that there would be a precedent-shattering occurrence. For
once a _zenana_ rumor seemed all too plausible, and late the previous
evening he had sent a dispatch through a _qazi_, a high judge, pleading
illness and excusing himself from _darshan_. And now he had stationed
himself to watch. How would the court officials react? Had they too
heard the rumors? And what of those who had gathered below to salute
Arangbar with the traditional _teslim_.
Most importantly, what of Nadir Sharif? This day could well be a
turning point in the course of India's history . . . and in the three
decades of his preeminence at court. If the rumors were true.
Nadir Sharif was easily the most accomplished courtier in India, a
skill that had earned him the most splendid palace in Agra after the
Moghul himself. His position brought with it not merely a palace, but
also the _mansab_ rank and _jagir_ wealth required to maintain it. Only
enormous wealth could sustain the hungry host of slaves, eunuchs,
concubines, musicians, dancers, and wives who thronged his Agra palace.
Success for Nadir Sharif had always seemed so effortless, so
inevitable, he often marveled that so few others had ever grasped the
elementary secret. His simple formula for longevity, in a court where
favorites daily rose and fell, was first to establish with certainty
which side of a difference would inevitably triumph, and then to unveil
his own supporting views.
He had made a lifelong habit of seeing everything. And saying almost
nothing. He understood well that thoughts unsaid often served better
than those voiced too hastly. Whereas the way of others might be flawed
by a penchant for the _zenana_, or jewels, or those intoxicants the
Prophet ha so futilely prohibited, Nadir Sharifs sole worldly obsession
was power--from which nothing, absolutely nothing, had ever turned his
head. For a decade he had ruled the Moghul empire in all but name,
forwarding to Arangbar only those petitions he favored, holding in
advisement any he opposed, counseling the Moghul at every turn--but
always through other, unsuspecting voices if the advice was anything
save disguised flattery.
His meticulous attention to affairs at court did not exclude foreign
trade. For years his voice had been raised against any who counseled
Arangbar in directions adverse to Portuguese interests. This attention
did not pass unnoticed in Goa, and when a kingly jewel was sent to
Arangbar, another of only slightly inferior dimensions always found its
way into the hands of Nadir Sharif.
The first rays of sun struck the hard ocher sandstone of the Red Fort's
east wall and suddenly it glowed like an inflamed ruby, throwing its
warmth across the face of the Jamuna River. Moments later the
heightening sun illuminated the rooftops of Agra, a sea of red tile and
thatch that spread out in a wide arc west of the fort.
Agra, the capital of Moghul India, was one of the great cities of the
East. It was home to over half a million, more than lived in any
capital of Europe, and some said a man on horseback could scarcely
circle it in a day. Yet most of the city was far from grand. It was a
jumble of two-story brick and tile merchant houses, clay-faced homes of
Hindu tradesmen, and a spreading sea of mud and thatch one-room hovels
that sheltered the rest.
But along the river on either side of the Red Fort had been created a
different world. There glistened the mansions of Moghul grandees like
Nadir Sharif, magical and remote, behind whose walls lay spacious
gardens cooled by marble fountains and gilded rooms filled with carpets
from Persia, porcelains from China, imported crystal from Venice. Their
_zenanas_ thronging with exquisite, dark-eyed women, and their
tapestried halls with hosts of slaves and eunuchs.
Nadir Sharif inhaled the clean air of morning and surveyed the palaces
on either side along the riverbank. They were all sumptuous, but none
more than his own. A vainer man might have swelled with pride at such a
moment, but Nadir Sharif knew from years of court experience that
vanity always led, inevitably, to excess, and finally to debt and ruin.
To keep one's place, he often told himself, one must know it. He also
knew that to hold one's ground, one must know when to shift.
His reverie was abruptly dispelled by the noise of shuffling feet, and
then a hesitant voice.
"A man is at the outer gate, Sharif Sahib, asking to see you."
Nadir Sharif turned to see the eunuch's spotless white turban bowing
toward him. He flared inwardly that his orders for absolute privacy had
been ignored, and then, as always, he waited a few seconds for
composure before speaking.
"I'm too ill to receive. Have you already forgotten my orders?"
"Forgive me, Sharif Sahib." The eunuch bowed ever lower and raised his
clasped palms in involuntary supplication. "He has demanded an
audience. He claimed he has arrived last night from the Deccan. He was
with the prince . . ."
Nadir Sharifs body tensed perceptibly. "What name did he give?"
"A Rajput name, Sharif Sahib. He said he was requested by Her Highness,
the princess, to report to you immediately on arriving."
Nadir Sharifs heart skipped a beat. Does this mean the English
_feringhi_ has arrived? Allah! On this of all days.
"Tell him I am at home." The voice was coolly matter-of-fact.
The eunuch bowed again and disappeared without a word. As Nadir Sharif
watched his skirt vanish past the doorway tapestry, he tried to clear
his mind and decide quickly what now must be done. Instinctively he
turned once more to monitor the _darshan_ balcony. Still nothing. Then
he smiled fleetingly, realizing that the fate of the Englishman would
depend very much on what happened at _darshan_ this very morning.
The visitor appeared, in freshly brushed red turban and jeweled
earrings, and wordlessly strode past the eunuch at the doorway, pushing
the partially opened tapestry aside as though a foe in battle. There
was about the man the haughty carriage and contemptuous eyes always
encountered among Rajputs in high places, and Nadir Sharif recognized
him immediately. The prime minister also knew this particular Rajput
had never trusted him, and never would.
"Nimaste, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao's salaam was correct but cold.
"It's always a pleasure to see you."
"When did you arrive?"
"Last evening."
"Have you arranged lodgings for the English _feringhi_? Even before
informing me you were here?"
"He has no lodgings yet, Sharif Sahib, only rooms at a guest house. The
_feringhi_ insisted no one be informed of his arrival. He did not say
why." Vasant Rao returned Nadir Sharifs expressionless stare. "The
prince's orders were to honor the _feringhi's_ requests whenever
possible."
Nadir Sharifs face betrayed none of his anger as he turned again toward
the _darshan_ balcony. A flock of vagrant pigeons darted overhead,
following the line of palaces along the river.
"How is the child?"
"He is well formed, Sharif Sahib. Your daughter, Her Highness, was also
well when I left Burhanpur. She gave me this dispatch for you."
Nadir Sharif accepted the bamboo tube and, controlling his expression,
tossed it aside as though it were of no more consequence than a
gardener's report brought by a eunuch. "I've received no pigeons from
her for four weeks. Only official dispatches from Ghulam Adl's
secretary in Burhanpur, which tell nothing. Why isn't he in the field
with Jadar? What is happening?"
"I'm not with the army now, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao casually stroked
his moustache. "Perhaps the prince has ordered secrecy to protect his
movements toward the south."
Nadir Sharif started to reply, but immediately thought better of it.
Instead he traced his finger along the railing of the balcony in
silence and seemed to listen to the distant pigeons as he rotated the
answer in his mind, knowing it was a lie and quickly evaluating the
possible reasons why.
In the north, dispatching pigeons in the field might be a risk, but
never in the south, where the infidel Deccanis always know the
deployment of our army better than its own commanders. No. There's
something planned that Jadar does not want me to know. Which can only
mean His impulsive Highness, Prince Jadar has undertaken something
foolish. I know him too well.
After a moment Nadir Sharif broke the silence, without turning his face
from the _darshan_ balcony.
"Tell me about the _feringhi_."
"Do you mean what he says? Or what I think about him?"
"Both."
"He claims to be an ambassador for the English king, but his only
credentials are a letter he brings, said to request a trading _firman_
from His Majesty."
"What are the intentions of this _feringhi_ king? Trade, or eventual
meddling?"
"No one has seen the letter, Sharif Sahib, but the Englishman says his
king merely asks to trade yearly at Surat."
"Which means the English must again contest with the Portuguese. Until
one of them eventually abandons our ports. They cannot both trade. The
Portuguese Viceroy would never allow it."
"What you say seems true. It's said the Christians in Europe are having
a holy war. I don't understand the cause, but the English and the
Portuguese seem to be historic enemies because of it. However, the
Englishman claims their disputes in Europe are now over, and that the
Portuguese attack on his ships was in violation of a treaty of peace
recently signed. Whether this is actually true no one knows. The
English ships are gone now, but if they come again, who can say what
will happen."
"Will they come again?" Nadir Sharifs eyes told nothing of his
thoughts, but his voice sharpened. "Soon?"
"The Englishman has not said. Perhaps next year. Perhaps before that."
Vasant Rao caught the inflection in Nadir Sharif's voice, and it
triggered a chain of improbable possibilities.
"Goa will never allow them open access to Surat. There must be war on
our seas if the English return." Nadir Sharif paused for a moment and
then continued. "Who do you think will triumph?"
"Ask those who claim the gift of prophecy, Sharif Sahib.
I'm only a soldier."
"That's why I asked you."
"I can only say that if other English are like this man, then they are
a determined race. He seems to seek the new because it is there, yet
perhaps not knowing what he will do with it once it is his."
"What do you mean?"
"The Englishman, Hawksworth. He claims to be here for his king and his
king only. But I sense this is only partly true. He is a man of complex
desires."
"Then why is he here?"
"I think he is here also for himself. He wants something."
"Perhaps it's to make war on the Portuguese?"
"He will not shrink from it. But I think his own coming to India is to
find something. He is searching, for what I cannot say. He is a man of
curious parts. He spoke once of spending time in prison. And he is
devoted to playing a small stringed instrument. He understands the
tongue of the Moghuls, and he questions all he sees. He is beginning to
know India, because he has made it his purpose to know India. If he
stays, he could become very troubling for the Portuguese."
"And will that bring no good to affairs here?" Nadir Sharif paused.
"Will it?"
"I do not follow matters of state, Sharif Sahib."
Nadir Sharif let the silence swell, then in a voice brittle as ice he
spoke.
"Why did the prince meet with him?"
Vasant Rao tried without success to mask his surprise. Lord Krishna,
they know everything in Agra.
"There was a meeting." Vasant Rao hesitated, then decided to maintain
discretion. "But neither spoke of it afterwards."
Nadir Sharif studied him, pondering if it were true. Then he turned to
glance at the _darshan_ balcony as he spoke.
"The Moghul has demanded that the English _feringhi_ be brought to
_durbar_ immediately after he arrives."
"Does that mean today?" Vasant Rao shifted with surprise.
"His Majesty will hear soon enough he has arrived. There
is no choice."
"Then the _feringhi_ must be told to prepare, Sharif Sahib. He has a
chest containing gifts, and the letter."
"I know what he has. Tell him he must bring the gifts to _durbar_. For
his sake I hope they're not trifles. His Majesty is most anxious to see
them."
And the queen is even more anxious to see the letter, Nadir Sharif told
himself. Then he smiled as he realized he would see it first.
It will be an interesting afternoon.
A fanfare of drums sounded faintly from the ramparts of the Red Fort,
and for a moment the morning sun seemed to glow even brighter against
the gleaming panels of the Jasmine Tower. Nadir Sharif turned toward
the _darshan_ balcony. From the shadow of its embroidered satin awning
a figure had suddenly emerged. It was just possible to make out the
man's glistening robe and his elaborate, patterned turban. Then the
heavy jewels of his earrings momentarily caught the morning sunshine
and sent streams of light flashing outward. All the waiting crowd bowed
low, each man touching the back of his right hand to the ground and
then bringing the palm to his forehead as he drew erect. It was the
formal _teslim_ given the Moghul, signifying each man's readiness to
give himself as an offering.
Nadir Sharif scrutinized the scene carefully and drew an almost audible
sigh of relief. Then he turned to Vasant Rao.
"Have you ever seen the Moghul at morning _darshan_? He continued on
distractedly, neglecting to pause for an answer. "You know, it's
actually a custom began by Akman, who worshiped the sun as one of the
gods. But Arangbar appears in order to maintain his own authority. If
he missed _darshan_ for a day, rumors would begin he was dead. Three
days and there would be anarchy."
Suddenly the cheers from the courtyard died abruptly. In the silence
that followed, a single pigeon's cry could be heard from overhead.
Nadir Sharif whirled to see a second figure now standing on the balcony
beside Arangbar.
It was a dark-haired woman. He could not tell if she wore a veil, but
her tiara of jewels glistened in the early sun. The color drained from
Nadir Sharif's face as he watched.
So the rumor was true. For the first time in history, she has appeared
beside him at _darshan_, to be worshiped equally.
Vasant Rao found himself staring in astonishment.
Queen Janahara. This is truly the beginning of the end for the prince.
He will never see Agra again. Unless he's at the head of an army, or in
chains.
"What does it mean?" Vasant Rao could think of nothing else to say.
"Times and fashions change. Perhaps it's a whim of His Majesty." Nadir
Sharif did not turn his gaze from the balcony. He did not want Vasant
Rao to see his eyes.
"Escort the _feringhi_ to _durbar_ today. He's not safe here alone."
"As you wish, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao paused and studied the back of
Nadir Sharifs turban. "Do you have a message for the prince when I
return?"
"Official channels will serve for any message I have to give the
prince." The prime minister whirled with uncharacteristic abruptness.
"That will be all. You would be wise to be out of Agra when the sun
rises tomorrow."
As Vasant Rao made his way past the waiting eunuchs, Nadir Sharif
turned once more to examine the _darshan_ balcony. He watched in
growing dismay as the courtiers on the platform began salaams to Queen
Janahara, who now stood boldly at the forefront of the canopied marble
portico.
Then he recalled the dispatch from Mumtaz.
A line of mounted Imperial guards cleared a pathway through the narrow
street, now a midday throng of bullock carts, dark-skinned porters,
ambling cattle, and black-veiled women balancing heavy brass pots atop
their heads. Along both sides of the street tan awnings shielded lines
of quick- eyed, bearded merchants, who squatted on their porches
beckoning all to inspect their unprecedented bargains in cloth, reeds,
betel leaves. Vendors sizzled flat bread in charcoal-fired round pans
and dropped balls of brown dough into dark pots of smoking oil,
seasoning the dusty air with piquant spice. Above the clatter of their
horses' hooves came a cacophony of street Hindi, squeaking cart wheels,
children's discordant piping.
Between the open shops were ornate doorways, framed in delicate
plasterwork scallops, leading upward to overhead balconies supported by
red sandstone brackets. Behind the latticework screens that fronted
these balconies--some carved rosewood, some filigreed marble--Hawksworth
could see clusters of idle women chewing betel and fanning themselves
as they leaned forward to inspect the procession below.
Hawksworth studied the helmeted guards around him, whose ornate shields
bore the Moghurs personal seal, and reflected on his introduction to
Agra. His caravan from the south had arrived at the city's outskirts
the evening before, after the sun's light had died away, and as he
requested, Vasant Rao had found a traditional guest house for them. It
was near the center of town, inconspicuous, and its primary amenities
were a rainproof thatch roof and a stone floor. Tomorrow, the Rajput
had told him, he must find a house befitting an ambassador.
The guards accompanying them into Agra had not even dismounted, had
turned back immediately for the south, and only Vasant Rao stayed to
share the evening meal. They had dined quickly on fried bread and
lentils and afterward the Rajput had retrieved his saddle from the
stable and, pillowing it under his helmet, immediately fallen asleep,
curved sword in hand. Hawksworth had lain awake listening to the night
sounds of Agra, wondering what his next move should be. Sleep finally
overtook him just before dawn broke.
He awoke to discover Vasant Rao already gone. But the Rajput had
mysteriously returned in time to share a breakfast of more fried bread
and spiced curds. After eating, Vasant Rao had announced that Arangbar
expected him in _durbar_ that afternoon. The rest of the morning had
been spent hastily procuring bearers for his chest of gifts and
cleaning the mildewed doublet and hose he had been instructed by the
Company to wear. Just after noon, a contingent of the Moghul's personal
guard had arrived
unexpectedly with orders to escort them through the center of Agra,
directly to the Moghul's private entrance to the Red Fort.
Their horses emerged abruptly from the narrow, jostling street and
Hawksworth realized they had entered a wide, sunlit plaza opening
outward from the fort's south gate. The close, acrid smells of the town
were immediately scourged by the searing midday heat. Hawksworth reined
in his horse and stared at the fort, incredulous at its immensity.
They were facing two concentric walls of polished red sandstone, the
outer easily forty feet high and the inner at least seventy. Both were
obviously thick, with battlements loop-holed for musketry and crowned
by rampart-ways. A wide wooden drawbridge leading to the entrance
spanned a thirty-foot, water-filled moat that followed the outer wall
in both directions as far as the eye could see.
It had to be the largest, most powerfully built fortress Hawksworth had
ever seen. No story he had heard, no imagined grandeur, had prepared
him for this first view. The sight was at once awesome and chilling.
No wonder the Moghul frightens all of India. It's impregnable. The
outer blocks of the walls seem to be linked by massive iron rings and
the round towers spaced along them have slots designed for heavy
ordnance. With two thick walls, which probably also have a moat
between, it would be impossible to storm. And cannon would be almost
useless.
Vasant Rao monitored Hawksworth's reaction, and his dark eyes betrayed
his pride. "Do you understand now why the Moghul is held in such
regard? No king in the world could have a palace as grand as this. Did
you know that the distance around the walls is over one _kos_. What
would that be? Around two of your English miles?"
Hawksworth nodded assent as their guards led them directly across the
wide drawbridge and through a passageway. The outer edge of the
drawbridge was connected by heavy chains to rollers at the top of the
entryway. The two rollers worked in a stone channel cut upward into the
steep walls of the passage and were held in place by iron bars inserted
into the channel. The bridge would lift automatically by simple removal
of the iron bars. Around them now was a small, heavily defended
barbican and ahead, between the outer and inner wall, was a gateway set
in a towering portal almost eighty feet high that was faced with
gleaming blue enamel tiles.
"How many gates like this are there?"
"The Red Fort actually has four gates, one on the river and one on each
of the other sides. This is the southern gate, which the Moghul
recently renamed the Amar Singh Gate"--Vasant Rao lowered his voice--
"after a defiant Rajput who he murdered. I have never seen it before,
but it is even more beautiful than the public Delhi Gate, on the north,
which is inlaid marble. The Red Fort is truly astonishing. Tell me,
Captain, is there anything in your England to compare?"
"Nothing." Hawksworth seached for his voice. "Why is it so large?"
"This is the place where India is governed. And the Moghul does not
live alone. He has to house over a thousand women, an army to protect
him and his treasury, and more servants than man can count." The Rajput
seemed momentarily puzzled by the question. Then he continued with a
sly smile. "The fort was built by the Moghul's father, the great Akman.
People say it required over eight years to complete. He also built
another complete city in the desert a few _kos_ west of here, but later
he abandoned it and moved back to Agra. Surely your English king
governs from a palace."
"His Majesty, King James, has a palace at Hampton Court." Hawksworth
paused. "But England is governed by laws made in Parliament, which has
its own place to meet."
"It sounds like you have a very weak king. Captain Hawksworth, if he
cannot rule." Vasant Rao glanced nervously at the guards. "You would do
well not to tell that to Arangbar. In India there is only one law, the
word of the Moghul."
As they entered the portico of the Amar Singh Gate, Hawksworth glanced
behind him, relieved to see that their porters still followed, one at
each side of his sea chest. Vasant Rao had cautioned him not to deliver
all the gifts at once, since Arangbar would expect a new gift each time
they met. King James's letter he carried personally, carefully secreted
inside his doublet.
Inside the archway of the gate were sets of thick wooden doors, opened
back against the sides. These inner doors bristled with long iron
spikes, and as Hawksworth puzzled over them, Vasant Rao caught his
questioning look.
"Those spikes embedded in the doors are to prevent war elephants from
battering them in with their foreheads. It's common in a fortress." He
smiled. "But then I keep forgetting your England probably has no
elephants."
Ahead, at the terminus of the archway, the path was blocked by a heavy
chain and armed sentries. The guards reined in their horses and began
to dismount, while their leader passed brusque orders to Vasant Rao.
"We ride no farther," Vasant Rao translated as he swung from the
saddle. "He says no one except the Moghul himself, his sons, or his
women is allowed to ride through the Amar Singh Gate. It's strictly
enforced."
Hawksworth paused one last time, feeling about him the weight of the
thick walls and the ornate tower rising above them, a great blue jewel
in the afternoon sun. For a moment he had the curious sensation of
entering a giant tomb. He took a deep breath and slowly dismounted,
feeling suddenly conspicuous in his formal silk hose and ruffled
doubtlet.
Vasant Rao passed the reins of his horse to a waiting servant and drew
alongside, his eyes intent. "Does it seem strange to you that the
Moghul would name one of the four gates to the Red Fort after a
Rajput?" He stroked the curl of his moustache, and lowered his voice.
"It's a story you should hear. It's not meant as an honor."
"What do you mean?"
"It's intended to be a warning to all Rajputs of what happens when he
is defied. There was, several years ago, a Rajput adventurer named Amar
Singh. He sought to rise to position in Arangbar's court--he eventually
did rise to the rank of a thousand horse--and along the way he asked and
received the help of an old courtier who had influence. Only later did
the Rajput find out that this man expected his younger daughter in
payment." Vasant Rao smile wryly. "They say she was incredibly
beautiful. Well, Amar Singh was a true Rajput, and he was outraged.
Naturally he refused. So the courtier who had helped him decided to
have revenge, and he went to Arangbar and told him about a certain
beautiful Rajput girl who would make an excellent addition to the
_zenana_. The Moghul immediately sent some of his personal guards to
Amar Singh's house to take the girl. When Amar Singh realized why the
guards had come, he called for the girl and stabbed her to death before
their eyes. Then he took horse and rode to the Red Fort, even riding
through this gate. He rode into the audience hall and demanded that
Arangbar appear and explain. Such things, Captain, are simply not done
in Agra. The moment he dismounted he was cut to pieces by a dozen of
Arangbar's guards. Then the Moghul decided to name this gate after him,
to remind all Rajputs of his fate. But he need not have bothered. No
Rajput will ever forget."
Leaving the servants with their horses, they proceeded on foot up a
wide, inclined path that led through an enclosed square. Around the
sides of the square were porticoes and galleries, where horsemen with
swords and pikes waited.
"Those men are on their _chauki_, their seventh-day watch." Vasant Rao
pointed to the porticoes. "Every soldier in Agra must stand watch once
every seven days. Either here or in the large square inside, where
we're going. It's the Moghul's law."
They passed through another large gate and suddenly a half dozen
turbaned guards, in leather armor and wearing long curved swords, drew
alongside, as though expecting them. Now with a double escort they
began the ascent of a long walkway, perhaps twenty paces wide, situated
between two high brick walls. Hawksworth's leather shoes padded against
the square paving stones, which had been striated to permit easy
footing for the Moghurs horses and elephants. As they reached the end,
they emerged into another large court, comprising the southeast corner
of the fort.
Ahead was yet a fourth gate. As they passed through, Hawksworth
realized it was protected by more mounted
horsemen in the recessed lower porticoes, and archers in elevated
galleries. They walked past the wide wooden doors and into a vast
milling square. It was several hundred feet on the side and ringed with
arcades where still more mounted horsemen waited. A wide roadway
divided the square.
"This is the quadrangle. I only saw it once before, but then I entered
from the public side." Vasant Rao indicated an identical gate, directly
opposite. "Over there."
The guards directed them toward a large multicolored silk canopy
fanning out from the tall buildings on their right. The area beneath
the canopy was cordoned off from the square by a red velvet railing,
and porters with cudgels stood around the perimeter. Vasant Rao seemed
increasingly nervous as their escorts led them forward, past the guards
at the entry to the canopy. Hawksworth noticed that the air beneath the
canopy was heavy with incense--ambergris and aloe--burning in gold and
silver censers hanging from poles.
"The arcade ahead is the _Diwan-i-Am_, the Hall of Public Audience,
where the Moghul holds his daily _durbar_." Vasant Rao pointed toward
the steps that led upward to a large open pavilion at the far end of
the canopy. It was several stories high and over a hundred feet on each
side. The roof was borne by marble arches supported by rows of white
columns. "No man with rank under five hundred horse is allowed to enter
inside the railing. I think that's why we have a special escort."
Above the crowd, at the far end of the hall, was a raised platform of
white marble, standing about three feet from the floor and covered by
its own tapestried canopy. The platform was surrounded by a silver
railing, and several turbaned men holding rolls of documents were now
struggling to gain a position at the rail. All around them the crowd
buzzed with anticipation.
Behind and above the platform, in a marble gallery set in the wall,
rested an immense throne carved from black marble. At its four corners
were life-sized statues of rearing lions, each spangled with jewels,
which supported in their silver paws a canopy of pure gold. The walls
on either side of the throne were latticework marble screens, through
which the _zenana_ women could watch.
"I've never seen the throne this close before. It's famous." Vasant Rao
paused. "And there are some in Agra who would sell their brother to
have it."
The Imperial guards suddenly saluted, fists against their leather
shields, turned and marched down the steps of the _Diwan-i-Am_ and back
into the square. Vasant Rao watched them disappear into the crowd and
then he shook the left sleeve of his riding cloak and a naked _katar_,
the deadly "tiger knife" all Rajputs carried, dropped into his hand.
Its handle was a gold-plated grip between two prongs, designed to be
held in the fist and thrust directly forward. Without a word he slipped
it into a sheath secured in the sash of his belt.
Hawksworth pretended not to notice and instead turned to examine the
crowd. Next to them an assembly of Persian diplomats, wearing heavy
robes and jewel-encrusted turbans, eyed Hawksworth's plain doublet and
hose with open contempt. The air was thick was sweat and incense and
the sparkle of gold and jewels.
Uniformed servants sounded a drum roll on two large brass kettles at
the back of the throne and the velvet curtains behind the throne
parted. Two guards with gold-handled swords entered briskly and stood
at attention, one on either side of the parted curtains.
Hawksworth felt his pulse surge as the next figure entered through the
curtains.
He was of middle height, with a small moustache and glistening diamond
earrings. He wore a tight patterned turban, a blue robe secured by a
gold brocade sash, jeweled rings on both hands, and a massive string of
pearls. A golden-handled sword and dagger were at his waist, and two
feline cubs frisked by his side. Hawksworth studied them in confusion,
and after a moment realized they must be baby lions, an animal famous
in English folklore but never actually seen firsthand by anyone in
England.
At that instant a din of kettledrums erupted from galleries at the
sides of the square. Almost as one those waiting called out a salaam,
bent forward, and touched the back of their right hand to the ground
and then to their forehead as they drew erect. The _durbar_ of the
Moghul had begun.
"You did not perform the _teslim_." Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth
with dismay in his voice. "He may have taken note of it. That was
unwise, my friend."
"An ambassador for a king doesn't prostrate himself."
"You're new to India. That may be taken as an excuse. The other
ambassadors here know better."
As they watched, three other men slowly emerged from behind the throne
and took their places on the marble platform, standing beside the
Moghul. They all wore jeweled turbans and each had a sash of gold cloth
about the waist. Hawksworth turned to Vasant Rao in time to see a look
of hatred flash through his eyes.
"Who are they?"
"The two younger men are his sons. I saw them once before in Agra. It's
traditional that his sons join him at the _durbar_ when they are here.
The younger one is Allaudin. He will be married next month to Queen
Janahara's daughter. The other one is his drunken brother Parwaz. The
older man is Zainul Beg, the Moghurs _wazir_, his chief counsel. He's
the father of Nadir Sharif, the prime minister, and he's also the
father of Queen Janahara."
Hawksworth watched as yet another man emerged through the curtain,
walked casually past the throne, and was helped onto the marble
platform directly in front. He turned to the silver rail, where a dozen
petitions were immediately thrust up to him.
Vasant Rao nudged Hawksworth and pointed. "And that's Nadir Sharif, the
prime minister. Remember him well. No one reaches the Moghul without
his consent."
The prime minister paused to study the faces below, and then reached
out for a petition. He unrolled it, scanned it quickly, and turned to
Arangbar, passing it upward with a comment only those by the throne
could hear. The business of the day was underway.
Arangbar listened with obvious boredom as one petition after another
was set before him. He held counsel with his sons and with the _wazir_,
and frequently he would turn to the marble screen off the right side of
the throne and discuss a petition with someone waiting behind it.
Below the platform several ambassadors shuffled, trying to mask their
impatience. Hawksworth suddenly realized that the jewel-encrusted boxes
they held, many of beaten gold, contained presents for the Moghul. He
looked at his own leatherbound wooden chest, shabby by comparison, and
his heart began to sink.
After a short while, the Moghul seemed to lose patience with the
petitions and, ignoring the waiting nobles, abruptly signaled for a
review of the day's elephant troops. Moments later, a line of war
elephants entered through the public gate and began to march single-
file across the back of the square. Their tusks were wreathed with gold
bands and they wore coverings of embroidered cloth which were strung
with tinkling bells and tassels of Tibetan yak hair. As each reached a
spot directly in front of the _Diwan-i-Am_ it stopped, kneeled, and
trumpeted to Arangbar.
When the last elephant had passed, drums were sounded again and a group
of eight men came into the square leading a snarling beast by heavy
chains attached to its iron collar. It was tawny, with a heavy mane and
powerful paws, and it roared out its displeasure as it writhed and
clawed at the chains.
Hawksworth took one look and realized it was a fully-grown male lion.
"That seems to be His Majesty's new toy." Vasant Rao pointed nervously.
"He collects lions as pets. That one must have just been captured."
Arangbar studied the lion with obvious delight. Then he bent down and
stroked one of the cubs by his side, lifting it to better view the new
prize. The assembly watched spellbound for a moment, then burst into
cheers.
As Hawksworth watched, Arangbar set down the lion cub and spoke with
his _wazir_. Zainul Beg stared into the crowd and then pointed. Moments
later the black cassock of a Jesuit appeared at the railing. With a
start Hawksworth recognized Father Alvarez Sarmento, last seen in the
courtyard of Mukarrab Khan's palace in Surat. The Jesuit listened to
the _wazir's_ instructions and then turned to the crowd. His
announcement was in English.
"His Majesty orders the ambassador from England to come forward."
Vasant Rao touched Hawksworth's arm and reached out to clasp his hand.
"This is your moment, my friend. By the time _durbar_ is through I will
be far from here."
"Why are you leaving?" Hawksworth turned and looked into his eyes,
suddenly realizing that Vasant Rao was the closest thing he had to a
friend in India.
"It's impossible for me to stay longer." Vasant Rao paused, and
Hawksworth sensed his warmth was genuine. Suddenly the Rajput reached
into the sash at his belt and drew out his sheathed _katar_. "You saved
my life once, in the village, and I've never found the words to thank
you. Perhaps this can say it for me. Take it as a token of friendship
from a Rajput. It was given to me by my father, and it has tasted blood
more times than I can count. You're a brave and honest man, and I think
we'll meet again."
Before Hawksworth could speak, Vasant Rao embraced him warmly and
melted into the crowd.
A pathway was clearing through the glaring nobles, and Hawksworth
quickly slipped the katar into his doublet as he leaned over to secure
the chest. When he reached the silver railing, Sarmento was waiting.
"Let me welcome you to Agra, Captain." The Jesuit spoke quietly in
English, his face a hard mask. "I pray God gave you a pleasant
journey."
"I thought you were bound for Lahore."
"In time, Captain, in time. But we have an Agra mission as well. Our
flock here grows. It must be tended. And do you remember what we agreed
that night in Surat?"
"Translate for the Inglish ambassador." Arangbar's voice interrupted,
speaking in Persian. "I would know his name."
"He asks your name." Sarmento spoke quietly to Hawksworth in English.
"You must bow when you give it."
"I am Captain-General Brian Hawksworth, ambassador of His Majesty, King
James the First of England." Hawksworth replied in Turkish, trying to
remember the speech he had been told to deliver. A look of delighted
surprise flashed through Arangbar's eyes. Hawksworth bowed and then
continued. "His Majesty, King James, has asked me to convey his
friendship to His Most Noble Majesty, Arangbar, Moghul of India,
together with certain unworthy tokens of his regard." Hawksworth tried
to think quickly of a way to explain the unimpressive gifts King James
had sent. "Those trifles he sends are not intended as gifts deserving
of Your Majesty, for that would be a bounty no single man could
deliver. Instead he has asked me to bring certain common products of
our country, not as gifts, for they are too unworthy, but as samples of
English workmanship that Your Majesty may examine personally the goods
he offers your merchants in trade. These are the first of many, more-
worthy gifts he is now assembling for Your Majesty, to be sent on
future voyages to your land."
"You speak the tongue of the Moghuls, Ambassador. Already your king
does me honor. I welcome you in his name." Arangbar leaned forward to
watch as Hawksworth opened the clasp on the chest.
The first items were samples of English woolens, lace, and brocade,
crafted into doublets. Hawksworth laid these aside and took out a
silver-trimmed brace of pistols, a gold- handled sword, an hourglass in
carved ivory, and finally a gold whistle studded with small diamonds.
The Moghul peered down from his marble throne impassively, and then
called for them to be brought to him.
While he examined each gift briefly, assessing it with a quick glance
and calling for the next, Hawksworth reached into the corner of the box
and withdrew the next present, a three-cornered English hat topped with
a feather. When Arangbar saw the hat his eyes brightened.
"At last I can look like a _topiwallah_." He pushed aside the other
gifts and called for the hat. He turned it in his hand for a moment,
then removed his jeweled turban and clapped it on his head with
delight.
"The _feringhi_ hat is a puzzling invention, Ambassador Khawksworth."
Arangbar stumbled over the pronunciation of the name as he signaled for
a mirror. "What purpose it serves I have never understood. You, I
observe, do not wear one yourself."
"Hats are not to my taste, may it please Your Majesty." Hawksworth
bowed again and then continued. "His Majesty, King James of England,
also has asked me to deliver a portrait of himself to Your Majesty,
together with letter expressing his desire for friendship between your
land and his." Hawksworth produced a small framed watercolor from the
wooden chest. It was a miniature on vellum, scarcely more than an inch
square, by Isaac Oliver, a celebrated artist from the school of
Nicholas Hilliard, who had been fashionable under Queen Elizabeth.
While Arangbar examined the painting, scrutinizing the workmanship as
might a connoisseur, Hawksworth reached into his doublet and withdrew
the letter. It was passed to Nadir Sharif, who presented it to
Arangbar.
The Moghul reluctantly handed the portrait to Allaudin, then inspected
the leather binding of the letter. Finally he broke the red wax seal
and began to study the writing, a quizzical expression spreading over
his face.
"The seal and script are worthy of a king. But it is in a language of
Europe."
"There are two copies, Your Majesty. One in English, the language of my
king, and one in Spanish, a language something like the Portugals
speak."
"Then we will have Father Sarmento translate."
Sarmento moved to the silver railing and took the leatherbound letter
with a distasteful expression. He examined it for a moment and then
began to read it silently, the color slowly draining from his face.
"What message does your king send, Ambassador?"
"His admiration for Your Majesty, whose reputation has reached even
Europe. And his offer of full and open trade between your nation and
his."
"The letter is basely penned, Your Majesty." Sarmento's face was red
with dismay as he turned to Arangbar. "Its style is unworthy of a great
prince."
Arangbar examined the Jesuit with a troubled gaze and shifted on his
throne.
"May it please Your Majesty, this man is the enemy of England."
Hawksworth pointed at Sarmento. "How can my king's letter be ill-
penned, when he entreats Your Majesty's friendship?"
Arangbar paused a moment and then he smiled broadly. "A reasonable
reply. The Inglish, I see, are a blunt-spoken race." He glanced at
Sarmento. "And we have already seen their seamanship."
"Your words honor my king, Your Majesty." Hawksworth found himself
bowing again and wondering how to respond.
"We would hear more of England. Is it large?"
"Not nearly as large as India, Your Majesty. It is an island, but the
queen of all the islands of the West."
"It is a rocky, barren speck in the great seas of Europe, Your
Majesty," Sarmento interjected himself, straining to hold his
composure. "A breeder of drunken fishermen and pirates. Its king is a
heretic, a sovereign of lawless privateers and an enemy of the Holy
Church."
"It is a noble land, Your Majesty, ruled by a free king, not by a
Spanish tyrant or an Italian pope, like the land of the Portugals. Our
cannon are the best in the world, our ships the swiftest, our men the
bravest. No flag but our own has ever flown above our soil. Our ships
have sailed all the seas of the world, from the East to the West. My
king's seamen have explored the seas north of England, searching for a
northeast passage to the Indies, and the Americas, searching for a
northwest passage. Off your own shores we have met the galleons of
Portugal, as Your Majesty must know, and in the West Indies we have
challenged and overcome the carracks of Papist Spain. There brave
English captains named Hawkins and Drake stood off Spaniards ten times
their number. The very name of England strikes fear in the heart of a
Portugal or a Spaniard."
Arangbar toyed with the jeweled whistle as he listened. "Your England
interests us, Ambassador Khawksworth." He paused for a moment and
reviewed the small, dispiriting assemblage of gifts. "We would know
when your king's next voyage will be."
"Very soon, may it please Your Majesty." Hawksworth squirmed, and
noticed Nadir Sharif suddenly edge closer to listen.
"But your king must send out voyages regularly? We have heard of the
English traders in our southern seas. Do you not know when the next
voyage will be, or what gifts your king is preparing? Surely he will
send them this year?"
"May it please Your Majesty"--Hawksworth fumbled with the railing,
trying to gain time--"I . . ."
Prince Parwaz suddenly plucked at Arangbar's arm and pointed into the
crowd. A tall bearded man with a vast turban and two ornate swords at
his side had moved next to the silver railing, near Hawksworth, holding
a petition in his hand.
"He is the man I spoke of yesterday." Parwaz spoke in Turki, and his
words seemed slurred. Hawksworth realized he was tipsy. "I told him to
bring his petition today personally. He's a commander with the rank of
a thousand horse. His stipend is eight thousand rupees a month. He
claims he has served honorably, most recently in the siege of Qandahar,
but that he must resign his _mansab_ and dismiss his men and horse
unless his stipend is increased."
Arangbar examined the man for a moment, then addressed him in Turki.
"What is your name and rank?"
"I am Amanat Mubarik, Your Majesty. I maintain a thousand horse, the
finest Arabian blood in India." The man stood straight and spoke with a
loud, clear voice.
"Is not your stipend the amount prescribed any man who maintains that
number?"
"It is, Your Highness. But I am not any man. I am a Pathan, and my
father was Fath Shah. No enemy of Your Majesty has ever seen the back
of my shield. His Highness, Prince Parwaz, saw me defend the royal
encampment five years ago when he moved south of the Narbada. With my
cavalry I held position when all others called for retreat. I challenge
any man here today to do me battle in your presence. With any weapon.
On horseback or on foot. Then you may decide if I am as other men."
The Moghul examined him carefully for a long moment.
"If you are not like other men, then I will let you prove it." Arangbar
pointed beyond the marble porticoes. "Will you fight with the lion?"
The Pathan commander turned and stared blankly into the sunlit square,
where the captured lion was snarling and pawing at its chains.
"A lion is a wild beast, Your Majesty. What trial is it for a man to
contest with a lion?"
"I think it would be the best trial of all." Arangbar's eyes began to
glow.
"A beast has no understanding, Majesty." He shifted nervously as he
realized Arangbar was not jesting. "It's not a fit thing for a man to
fight."
"You will joust with him." The fancy seemed to flood Arangbar with
pleasure, and he turned abruptly to one of the guards. "Give him a
glove and a truncheon. That should suffice for a man who claims bravery
above all others."
Hawksworth watched in disbelief as the dazed commander was led from the
_Diwan-i-Am_ and into the quadrangle. A murmur of amazement passed
through the crowd.
The square cleared quickly as the lion was brought forward by its
keepers. Still incredulous, the Pathan slowly pulled the heavy glove
onto his left hand, then he took the truncheon, no more than a foot and
a half long, in his right. Guards took his swords and turban and in
moments he and the lion were faced off in the afternoon sunshine.
Hawksworth forced himself to watch as the commander began to spar with
the lion, a young male with powerful claws. He managed to cudgel the
lion several times, with the effect that it became more enraged than
harmed. Then with a roar it sprang, pulling free of its keepers, and
they went down together, rolling in the dust of the square.
The Pathan continued to bravely cudgel the lion, even while its claws
ripped across his face and arms. Hawksworth watched the lion's hard
tail whip for balance as it pawed again and again at the truncheon.
Suddenly the man pulled free of its grasp and, with a wide arcing
swing, brought the truncheon directly across the crown of the lion's
head. Its rear haunches clawed upward spastically and then it pitched
unconscious into the bloody dust, its body still twitching.
A cheer rose from the crowd of onlookers as the Pathan slowly drew
himself erect. Hawksworth realized that the right side of his face had
been completely ripped away by the lion's sharp claws. He made a few
halting steps toward the _Diwan-i-Am_, wheeled dizzily, and collapsed
in a pool of blood. He was dead by the time the guards reached him.
Arangbar had watched in spellbound delight. He clapped his hands and
turned to Parwaz, whose glazed eyes seemed not to have fully
comprehended the spectacle.
"Astounding. I never knew a man could kill a lion with a mere club. He
was braver than he knew. If he has sons, I will allow them to keep half
his estate." Arangbar turned to the guard captain standing by the
curtained entrance. "Tomorrow select ten of your best men and we will
bring more lions. What better test of bravery?"
The uniformed men standing at attention around the perimeter of the
_Diwan-i-Am_ all blanched but their eyes remained fixed straight ahead.
Then Arangbar suddenly remembered Hawksworth.
"Does England have men as brave as ours, Ambassador?"
Hawksworth felt a cold sweat in his palms.
"No man in England would dare challenge one of Your Majesty's lions."
Arangbar laughed loudly. Before he could respond, the _wazir_ was
whispering in his ear. He glanced at the marble screen directly behind
his throne and nodded. Then he turned to Hawksworth.
"We are called away, Ambassador. I'm told I must take my afternoon
rest. This is the time of day I retire to the _zenana_ for one
_pahar_." He winked and gestured toward the marble screen. "Her Majesty
rules our time. But I want to speak more with you today about this
island of England. And about your king's schedule for trade. You will
attend me in the Diwan-i-Khas this evening."
"As Your Majesty pleases."
As Arangbar rose his eye caught the painting. He picked it up and
scrutinized it, then turned to Hawksworth.
"Is this a fair example of Inglish painting?"
"It came from the school of a celebrated artist, Your Majesty. His
Majesty, King James, sat to have it painted especially for you."
Hawksworth sensed that Arangbar had taken more interest in the painting
than in any of the other gifts, except perhaps the hat. "The painters
of England are the finest in the world."
The Moghul stirred slightly and then summoned a small, wiry man with
heavy brows from the first row of courtiers. He briskly moved to the
front and salaamed to Arangbar. The Moghul passed the painting to him
and together they studied it, conversing quietly in Persian. Then
Arangbar turned to Hawksworth.
"We have a school of artists here in the palace, Ambassador
Khawksworth. This man, who directs the school, says this portrait's
background is too dark, the eyes lifeless. And it is neither three-
quarter nor full face, as is our proven convention. Consequently it
gives no sense of your king's depth of character." Arangbar smiled. "He
also says the portraits he and his men execute are far more difficult.
They catch the soul of the man, not merely his physical likeness."
"May it please Your Majesty, I cannot accept what he says."
Arangbar translated to the artist, who replied quickly in Persian,
casting a quick, contemptuous glance at Hawksworth.
"He declares he could easily duplicate this simple portrait of your
king, in a likeness so exact you could not tell his copy from the
original."
"Such a thing is not possible, Your Majesty. No man in the world could
execute this exact painting, save the man who first put in on paper."
Arangbar again translated for his painter, who replied animatedly.
"My Chief Painter says he and his workshop could easily
produce four copies of this, any one of which would pass for the
original."
"May it please Your Majesty, I say it is impossible. European painting
is a centuries' old tradition, requiring years of apprenticeship and
study."
The men around Hawksworth had begun to shift uncomfortably. The Moghul
was never contradicted. Yet he seemed to relish the dispute.
"Then we'll set a wager. What will you wager me, Ambassador, that I can
make this one painting of your king into five?"
"I know not what to lay with so great a prince, nor does it befit me to
name a sum to Your Majesty." Hawksworth shifted uneasily, unsure of the
protocol of betting with kings.
"Then if you'll not wager with me, wager with my painter."
"Begging Your Majesty's pardon, your painter is no more suited to wager
with an ambassador than I am to wager with Your Majesty."
"Then wager with my prime minister." He turned to Nadir Sharif. "What
will you lay?"
"Five thousand gold mohurs, Majesty."
Hawksworth swallowed hard, realizing the amount was almost ten thousand
pounds English sterling, more money than he had ever seen.
"Money is not an honorable bet among those who speak for great princes,
Your Majesty." Hawksworth glanced about wildly, then an idea came. "But
perhaps I could wager your prime minister a horse, a fine Arabian
stallion."
"Done." Arangbar beamed. "I'll have the paintings tonight."
The painter stared at Arangbar in dismay.
"It's not possible, Majesty. There's not time."
"You'll find a way. Or you'll owe Nadir Sharif a horse."
Arangbar passed the painting back to the painter and whirled with a
flourish to leave. Around Hawksworth the nobles all bowed to the
ground.
Hawksworth turned quickly to scan the back of the crowd, but Vasant Rao
had disappeared. Then guards surrounded him and before he knew what was
happening he was swept past Sarmento, whose eyes still glowed with
hatred, toward a marble doorway at the corner of the _Diwan-i-Am_.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Ambassador Hawksworth, His Majesty has asked me to ensure you
are wanting in nothing while you wait." Nadir Sharif was standing on
the wide marble balcony when Hawksworth emerged from the stairs that
led upward from the _Diwan-i-Am_ to the interior courtyard of the
palace. He salaamed with practiced dignity even as his darting eyes
assessed Hawksworth in a quick sweep. "As prime minister for His
Majesty it is my duty, indeed my pleasure, to attend your comfort and
acquaint you with our protocol."
"I thank you on behalf of His Majesty, King James." Hawksworth
awkwardly tried to salaam in return, careful not to bend as low as the
prime minister.
"Perhaps I can begin by acquainting you with the palace." He gestured
toward the open courtyard, where workmen thronged installing marble
fountains, and the rest of the encircling second-story balcony. "The
stalls below us are where the wives of merchants sometimes come to
offer finery to the women of the _zenana_. Now they are being readied
for His Majesty's birthday celebration. And there, across the way"--he
pointed to a massive silk canopy covering a pavilion opposite the
square, on the riverside of the palace-- "is the _Diwan-i-Khas_, where
His Majesty holds his evening gatherings. To the left are His Majesty's
baths and on the right, projecting out over the river, is the Jasmine
Tower of Queen Janahara. Now please follow me. His Majesty has honored
you by inviting you to wait for him in the _Diwan-i- Khas_. The only
other _feringhis _ever to see it are the Jesuits he sometimes invites
here to debate with the mullahs."
Around them the marble porticoes had been carved in relief, a profusion
of flowers and vines, creating a monochromatic garden in stone. The
floors were patterned marble and the walls decorated with hanging
tapestries. As they entered the _Diwan-i-Khas, _Hawksworth noticed its
floor was covered with a vast Persian carpet, over which had been
scattered bolsters and pillows for lounging. On the side nearest the
interior square was a foot-high platform in white marble and on the
opposite side, facing a gallery overlooking the arena below and the
Jamuna River beyond, was a similar platform in black marble. Both were
padded with rich carpets.
"His Majesty uses the white throne in evenings, and the black in the
afternoons, when he sometimes comes here to watch elephant fights in
the square below. The doorway there leads to Her Majesty's apartments."
"Where is His Majesty now?"
"He has retired to the _zenana _for one _pahar_, three hours, where he
dines on roasted meats, some wine, and passes the time agreeably. Each
afternoon Her Majesty selects a woman for him." Moghul smiled.
"Naturally it's never the same one. Her Majesty is always first in his
heart, but she never allows his wanton affections to wander. Afterward
he comes here for his evening gathering." Nadir Sharif walked to the
gallery and looked down on the river. Far below, on the opposite bank,
a caravan of heavily loaded camels passed silently. "By the way, His
Majesty has asked me to inquire if you have a lodging yet, Ambassador."
"I have references for brokers, and tomorrow I'll begin to look."
"And personal servants?"
"I'd hoped they'd be provided with the house."
"His Majesty may wish to arrange lodgings for you." Nadir Sharif turned
back toward Hawksworth and paused for a moment before continuing. "In
Agra ambassadors must acquire their lodgings and servants with care.
There is, regrettably, a certain amount of intrigue in our city.
Trustworthy and efficient servants are not always the easiest thing to
find. Perhaps I should raise the matter of your lodging and servants
with His Majesty."
"There's no reason to trouble His Majesty. I'll contact the
brokers tomorrow." Hawksworth's tone was level but firm, suspecting
that any servants picked for him would be spies. And if they turned out
to be "trustworthy and efficient" rather than lazy and begrudging,
there would be no doubt.
"The matter rests with His Majesty." Nadir Sharif watched as a eunuch
entered bearing a tray with glasses of _sharbat_. A _sarangi _player
followed him and settled in the corner, striking up a mournful-sounding
tune on an instrument that looked like a bloated violin and sounded, to
Hawksworth, like a distressed cat.
"Have you engaged an agent yet, Ambassador?" Nadir Sharif directed the
tray toward Hawksworth.
"What do you mean?"
"If your king wishes to trade large quantities of commodity, he will
certainly require an agent here in Agra. To ensure that documents and
approvals are handled efficiently." Nadir Sharif sighed. "Officials
here naturally prefer to work with someone who understands their . . .
requirements. An agent will be essential, if your king expects to trade
heavily." Nadir Sharif paused. "I presume that is his intention,
assuming His Majesty approves the _firman_?"
Hawksworth examined Nadir Sharif for a moment, assuming he was offering
to be the agent for King James. Or was he merely hoping to elicit trade
information to pass on to the Portuguese.
"I'll engage an agent when the time seems proper. For now I have no
_firman_." Then a light suddenly dawned somewhere in Hawksworth's
brain. "But I suppose I'll need an 'agent' for that as well?"
"It could prove useful. His Majesty can be distressingly absentminded."
"And what would be this agent's fee?"
"It depends on the difficulty involved." Nadir Sharif's face remained
impassive.
"I would say it also depends on whether he's successful."
"So it would. But he would need more information on English trading
intentions than you have divulged so far."
"That will come in time, when I know more about the 'agent.'"
"Naturally." Nadir Sharif cleared his throat. "But enough
of affairs. Permit me to toast your arrival. When your request for a
safe-conduct pass arrived from Surat, we all wondered if a _feringhi
_new to India could successfully travel our bandit-infested roads, even
with the Moghul's pass." He took a delicate sip of the beverage. "I
trust your journey was without mishap."
"For the most part."
"A diplomatic answer. But you seem to have survived all parts well
enough. Did you take the Burhanpur road?"
"I did."
"Ah, then perhaps you passed Prince Jadar. I understand he was there
recently." Nadir Sharif smiled disarmingly. "I always welcome news of
him. You may know he's married to my first daughter, Mumtaz. I hear she
just presented him with his first son."
"He was in Burhanpur when I arrived. But I was only there for three
days."
"Not a very interesting city, I'm told. But they say the Deccan itself
is quite beautiful in harvest. I envy you your trip. I, alas, rarely
can escape Agra, except when His Majesty goes to Kashmir in the heat of
summer." Nadir Sharif signaled the eunuch to refill Hawksworth's cup.
The _sarangi _player had been joined by a drummer, who took up a slow,
even rhythm. "Did I understand you to say you met the prince while you
were there?"
Hawksworth hesitated and studied Nadir Sharif, not remembering he had
mentioned meeting Jadar. "Actually I did see him briefly once. He was
in the fortress, where I stayed."
"Ah yes, the fortress. That was wise of you, considering the situation
now. I'm pleased he invited you to join him."
"As it happened, I traveled from Surat with men from his guard. Their
destination was the fortress."
"His guards? Then you were most fortunate indeed." Nadir Sharif seemed
to listen absently to the melody for a moment. "I'm always a bit stupid
about military campaigns. What would men from his guards be doing in
Surat?"
Hawksworth heard an inner alarm suddenly sound. "I think they were
there to accompany a convoy."
"A convoy? From Surat? Odd. But then I rarely understand these things.
What was it bringing?" Nadir Sharif chuckled congenially. "Barrels of
Persian wine for the prince, I would venture to guess?"
"I understand it was lead for shot."
Nadir Sharif gave Hawksworth a quick, troubled glance. "I see. Yes,
lead would require a guard. But Prince Jadar's Rajputs virtually scorn
to use muskets, so I assume it was rather a small number of carts."
Hawksworth straightened his doublet, shifting the location of Vasant
Rao's katar. "I don't recall the precise number."
"Naturally. I'm confused by numbers myself. Probably something like
twenty, I suppose. Certainly, I would presume, no more than fifty?"
"I didn't count the exact number."
"Too many to count? I see." Nadir Sharif seemed to be only half
attentive to the conversation, as he swung his head from side to side
in appreciation of the accelerating tempo of the drummer. "Doubtless it
was some of the very lead I'm told you brought for trade."
"It wasn't English."
"Ah, then I suppose it was Portuguese. I assume you must have noticed."
"Not actually." Hawksworth paused. "It wasn't really my concern."
"Yes, quite so." Nadir Sharif walked again to the gallery and stood
silent, still swinging his head absently to the time of the music. The
pieces of the puzzle had already dropped into place.
So that's how Jadar did it. And only one man in Surat could have
provided the prince the silver he needed, that contemptible son of a
moneylender Mirza Nuruddin. He's uncontrollable. But even if the prince
survives the Deccan, what can he do? The Imperial army . . .
Allah, it's obvious! There's only one way he can ever march north with
enough men to meet Janahara's army. By the Merciful Prophet, he's mad!
Nadir Sharif coughed lightly and turned back toward the
room. "Ambassador Hawksworth, would you care for some wine? You need
not be squeamish, His Majesty has always admired men who drink. I would
join you, but regrettably I cannot. While His Majesty retires, the rest
of us must labor on."
"A glass would be welcome."
"A glass, Ambassador? Did you say 'a glass'?" Nadir Sharif laughed.
"You'll need more than a glass if you drink with His Majesty. I'll send
the servants." He bowed again at the doorway of the vestibule. "I'll
rejoin you when I can. In the meantime, summon the eunuchs if you
require anything."
He turned and was gone. In what seemed only moments, two turbaned
servants appeared, smiling as they placed a large chalice of wine on
the carpet next to Hawksworth's bolster.
"It's all too incredible." Queen Janahara slumped onto a velvet divan
and distractedly took a rolled betel leaf from the silver tray offered
by a hovering eunuch. Behind her a female _zenana _slave fanned a plume
of peacock feathers against the afternoon heat. As she spoke she
brushed back her gold-threaded scarf, revealing gleaming dark hair--the
few gray strands had been perfectly dyed--pulled back tightly against
her head and secured with a golden band. Her only jewels were in a
necklace, diamonds with a massive blue sapphire that complemented her
dark eyes. She was nearing fifty, but still possessed of a beauty that
had, with the years, evolved to magnificent dignity. Her face was
statuesque and her Persian was both elegant and mellifluous. "He's
still marching south. I think he actually enjoys living in the field,
surrounded by mud and Rajputs. How much longer can he continue?"
"Be assured this time the prince will bring his own undoing." Nadir
Sharif accepted a betel leaf from the tray, a gesture, and absently
rolled it between his thumb and finger. He wondered nervously why she
had summoned him to the Jasmine Tower the minute he left the English
_feringhi_. He normally enjoyed meeting her there, amid the marble
screens, where they could recline on the carpeted terrace and admire
the broad Jamuna. As her brother and prime minister, it was not
unseemly for him to visit her in her quarters. "The campaign in the
Deccan will change everything, Your Majesty. It cannot end as did the
last one, with Malik Ambar surrendering out of fright. The Abyssinian
surely suspects by now that Jadar is isolated."
Queen Janahara was no longer listening. Her thoughts were seething over
the two surprises of the day. The first was Nadir Sharif's absence from
her historic appearance at the _darshan _balcony. She had already been
informed of his absence by four separate eunuchs. All assumed it was
deliberate.
Nadir Sharif. My own brother. Can he be wavering? Or merely bargaining?
Why? Has something happened with Jadar? The march south should have
been the end of him. The _mansabdars _and their troops south of the
Narbada were in shambles. But somehow Jadar has managed to recall
enough cavalry to continue his campaign. What is he planning?
That question called to mind the second problem of the day.
The Englishman.
She knew, as Arangbar did not, that the Englishman had already met with
Jadar. Why had Jadar contrived such a meeting? The prince must know
that both she and Nadir Sharif had full support of the Viceroy of Goa.
Did he also know that the Viceroy had even offered secretly to help arm
the Deccanis against him, an arrangement she was now negotiating?
What of the English _feringhi_, his letter, his meeting with Jadar? She
had studied him carefully through her screen when he appeared at the
afternoon _durbar _and she had ordered a Persian translation of his
letter prepared immediately. And what she read was disturbing. The
English king had, it was true, asked merely for a trading _firman_. But
who knew what sea power waited behind the English appearance at Surat?
She knew Jadar despised Christians, but he would not scruple to use
them one against the other. Where would it lead, if Jadar could enlist
English sea power in the struggle that loomed ahead, and somehow
neutralize the influence of the Portuguese? Maddeningly, the Moghul
seemed amused by the Englishman, by his rude manner.
"Why did His Majesty invite the _feringhi _to the _Diwan-i- Khas
_tonight?"
"My esteemed sister, you were at today's durbar. You know His Majesty's
whims far better than I. Perhaps he was fascinated by finding a
_feringhi _who speaks his barbarous Turki. For His Majesty the new
_feringhi _cannot be anything more than merely a new toy, like a new
dog or horse. He will amuse himself with the _feringhi_, dangle
promises before him, and wait to see if more gifts are forthcoming. You
know he is the same with all ambassadors."
"This one I think is different. Did you see him refuse to _teslim_? I
think His Majesty is already awed by him. I fear for India if the
English ever gain influence here. Do you really believe the English
king wants nothing more than trade?" Janahara found herself searching
for the key to Nadir Sharifs thoughts. "What do you suppose would
happen if these English defy the Portuguese and one day decide to
blockade Surat? To allow trade only to those who have supported them at
court." She paused as she studied him. "Could there be some here
already who are fearful enough to pretend friendship to the
Englishman?"
"Who could know these things?" Nadir Sharif walked to the white marble
railing and gazed along the side of the fort, where the Jamuna lapped
gently against the thick red walls. He remembered his pigeons, and then
he remembered the morning _darshan_ and Janahara's unprecedented
appearance.
The Englishman is hardly a problem, my dear sister. He is already
tamed. You are the problem now. You and your newfound power. But if you
fear this harmless _feringhi_ more than you fear me, then I have at
last found a way to manage you as well. At long last.
"Tonight I will drink with the English _feringhi_, and then we may
learn something useful. A man lounging with a wine cup in his hands
says things he would never utter standing at _durbar_. I think His
Majesty may also be wondering about the intentions of his king."
Janahara chewed silently on the betel leaf and eyed him, knowing he had
met that morning with the Rajput who brought the English _feringhi _to
Agra and wondering why. Whatever the reason, she told herself, Nadir
Sharif would never be so foolish as to side with Jadar. Not so long as
the prince was isolated and weak. Nadir Sharif did not gamble.
"The _feringhi _must be watched closely. Find a way. We need to know
what he is doing, what he is thinking. Do you understand?"
"To hear is to obey." Nadir Sharif bowed lightly.
"And you will be at _darshan _tomorrow morning. Even if you were not
there today."
"Naturally had I but known, Majesty . . ."
"Father made you prime minister. You can be just as easily removed."
"Your Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed, and with an unseen flick sent the
rolled betel leaf spinning past the railing, toward the dark waters of
the Jamuna below.
Hawksworth sipped from the new cup of wine, his third, and watched the
musicians begin to retune. Around him the members of Arangbar's inner
circle were assembling in the _Diwan-i-Khas_. This must be evening
dress in Agra, he marveled: silk turbans studded with rubies and
sapphires, diamond earrings, swords trimmed in gold and silver, pearl
necklaces, cloaks of rich brocade, velvet slippers. The faces around
him all betrayed the indolent eyes and pasty cheeks of men long
indulged in rich food, hard spirits, sensuality.
It was, he now realized, the fairyland that Symmes had described that
freezing day so long ago in the offices of the Levant Company. What man
not a Papist monk could resist the worldly seductions of the Moghul's
court?
Then he remembered the brave Pathan who had been torn apart by a lion
that very afternoon, while all Arangbar's nobles watched unprotesting.
On the signal of a eunuch standing by the doorway the
drummer suddenly pounded out a loud, rhythmic fanfare, and then the
sitarist took up a martial motif. The brocade drapery hanging inside a
marble archway at the back of the room was drawn aside by a guard and a
moment later Arangbar swept into the room. The courtiers all bowed in
the _teslim_, rising with their hands on their forehead.
Arangbar had changed to evening dress. He wore a dark velvet turban
encrusted with jewels, tight-fitting patterned trousers beneath a
transparent muslin skirt, and a gold brocade cinch at his waist. He
clapped his hands in delight when he saw Hawksworth holding a wine cup.
"The ambassador has already tasted our Persian wine. How do you find
it, Ambassador . . . Khaw . . . ?" He stumbled over the name. "Wait.
The first thing we must do is rename you. Henceforth we will call you
'Inglish.' Now, have we pronounced that properly?"
"Perfectly, Your Majesty. And, so please Your Majesty, the wine is
excellent, though perhaps not as sweet as the wines of Europe."
"Every _feringhi _says the same, Inglish. But we will civilize you. And
also teach you something about painting." He seized a glass of wine
from a waiting eunuch and then shouted to Nadir Sharif, who had entered
moments before from the back. "Where are my five paintings?"
"I'm told they will be ready before Your Majesty retires. The painters
are still hard at work, so please Your Majesty."
"It does not please me, but then I have no wager." He roared with
amusement. "Your stables will be reduced by a prize stallion come
morning if the paintings are not ready soon. Look to it."
As Nadir Sharif bowed in acknowledgment, Arangbar whirled to
Hawksworth.
"Tell me something about your king, Inglish? How many wives does he
have? We have hundreds."
"He has but one, Your Majesty, and I believe she is mostly for show.
King James prefers the company of young men."
"Very like most Christians I've met. And you, Inglish. Have you any
wives?" Arangbar had already finished his first glass of wine and taken
a second.
"I have none, Your Majesty."
"But you, I suspect, are not a Jesuit, or a eunuch."
"No, Your Majesty."
"Then we shall find you a wife, Inglish." He took a ball of opium and
washed it down with wine. "No, we will find you two. Yes, you shall be
well wived."
"May it please Your Majesty, I have no means to care for a wife. I am
here for only a season." Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably.
"You will only leave Agra, Inglish, when it is our pleasure. But if you
will not have a wife, you must at least have a house."
"I am arranging it now, Your Majesty."
Arangbar looked at Hawksworth sharply, then continued as though he had
not heard.
"Now tell us more about your king. We would know what he's like."
Hawksworth bowed as he tried to collect his thoughts. The wine was
already toying with his brain. Although most of what he knew about King
James was hearsay, he knew he did not care for England's new king
overly much. No English subject did. And idle seamen had reason to
dislike him the most of all. He was not the sovereign Elizabeth had
been.
"He's of middle stature, Your Majesty, not overly fat though he seems
so since he always wears quilted, stiletto-proof doublets."
Arangbar seemed surprised. "Is he not safe? Has he no guards?"
"He's a prudent man, Your Majesty, as befits a sovereign." And,
Hawksworth thought, also a coward, if you believe the talk in London.
What all men know for fact, though, is that he's a weakling, whose legs
are so spindly he has to be helped to walk, leaning on other men's
shoulders while he fiddles spastically with his codpiece.
"Does your king wear many jewels, Ambassador Inglish?"
"Of course, Your Majesty." Hawksworth drank calmly from his wine cup,
hoping the lie would pass unnoticed.
What would the Moghul think if he knew the truth, Hawksworth asked
himself? That King James of England only changes his clothes when they
are rags, and his fashion never. He was once, they say, given a
Spanish-style hat, and he cast it away, swearing he loved neither them
nor their fashions. Another time he was given shoes with brocade roses
on them, and he railed at the giver, asking if he was to be made a
ruff-footed dove.
"Is your king generous of nature, Ambassador? We are loved by our
people because we give of our bounty on every holy day. Baskets of
silver rupees are flung down the streets of Agra."
"King James is giving also, Your Majesty." With the moneys of others.
He'd part willingly with a hundred pounds not in his own keeping before
he'd release ten shillings from his private purse. And it's said he'd
rather spend a hundred thousand pounds on embassies abroad, buying
peace with bribes, than ten thousand on an army that would enforce
peace with honor. "He is a man among men, Your Majesty, admired and
loved by all his subjects."
"As are we, Ambassador." Arangbar took another ball of opium and washed
it down with a third glass of wine. "Tell me, does your king drink
spirits?"
"It is said he drinks often, Your Majesty, though many declare it is
more out of custom than delight. He drinks strong liquors--Frontiniack,
Canary, High Canary wine, Tent wine, Scottish ale--but never, it's said,
more than a few spoonfuls."
"Then he could never drink with the Moghul of India, Ambassador. We
have twenty cups of wine a night. And twelve grains of opium." Arangbar
paused as he accepted yet another glass. His voice had begun to slur
slightly. "But perhaps your king can trade with me. When will the ships
from your king's next voyage arrive? And how many of your king's
frigates will we see yearly if we grant him the trading _firman _he
requests?"
Hawksworth noticed out of the corner of his eye that Nadir Sharif had
now moved directly beside him. The prime minister held a glass of wine
from which he sipped delicately. Around him the other courtiers were
already drinking heavily, to the obvious approval of Arangbar.
He'll not finish a single glass of wine, if my guess is right. Nadir
Sharif'll find a way to stay stone sober while the rest of the room
sinks into its cups. And they'll all be too drunk to notice.
"King James will one day send an armada of frigates, Your Majesty."
Keep Arangbar's mind off the next voyage. He just may try to hold you
here until it comes, or refuse to grant a _firman _until he sees the
next batch of presents. "His Majesty, King James, is always eager to
trade the seas where his ships are welcome."
"Even if other nations of Europe would quarrel with his rights to those
seas?"
"England has no quarrels in Europe, Your Majesty. If you refer to the
engagement off Surat, you should know that was caused by a
misunderstanding of the treaties that now exist in Europe. England is
at peace with all her neighbors."
A skeptical silence seemed to envelop the room. Arangbar took another
cup of wine and drank it off. Then he turned to Hawksworth.
"The matter, Ambassador Inglish, does not seem to us to be that simple.
But we will examine it more later. Nights are made for beauty, days for
affairs of state." Arangbar's voice had begun to slur even more
noticeably. "You may have heard there will be a wedding here soon. My
youngest prince is betrothed to the daughter of my queen. The wedding
will be held one month after my own birthday celebration, and it will
be an event to remember. Tonight I begin the always-pleasant task of
selecting the women who will dance. Do you know anything of Indian
dance?"
"Very little, Your Majesty. I have only seen it once. In Surat. At a
gathering one evening at the palace of the Shahbandar."
Arangbar roared and seized another glass of wine. "I can well imagine
the kind of entertainment the Shahbandar of Surat provides for his
guests. No, Ambassador, I mean the real dance of India. The dance of
great artists? Perhaps you have classical dance in England?"
"No, Your Majesty. We have nothing similar. At least similar to the
dance I saw."
"Then a pleasant surprise awaits you." Arangbar examined Hawksworth's
cup and motioned for a servant to refill it. "Drink up, Inglish. The
evening is only beginning."
Arangbar clapped drunkenly and the guests began to settle themselves
around the bolsters that had been strewn about the carpet. An ornate
silk pillow was provided for each man to rest against, and a number of
large hookahs, each with several mouthpieces, were lighted and
stationed about the room. The servants also distributed garlands of
yellow flowers, and as Nadir Sharif took his place next to Hawksworth,
he wrapped one of the garlands about his left wrist. With the other
hand he set down his wineglass, still full, and signaled a servant to
replenish Hawksworth's. Arangbar was reclining now on the throne,
against his own bolster, and the oil lamps around the side of the room
were lowered, leaving illumination only on the musicians and on a bare
spot in the center of the carpet. The air was rich with the aroma of
roses as servants passed shaking rosewater on the guests from long-
necked silver decanters.
The musicians were completing their tuning, and Hawksworth noticed that
now there were two drummers, a sitar player, and a new musician holding
a _sarangi_. In the background another man sat methodically strumming a
simple upright instrument, shaped like the sitar save it provided
nothing more than a low-pitched droning, against which the other
instruments had been tuned. Next a man entered, wearing a simple white
shirt, and settled himself on the carpet in front of the musicians. As
silence gripped the room, Arangbar signaled to the seated man with his
wineglass and the man began to sing a low, soulful melody that seemed
to consist of only a few syllables. "Ga, Ma, Pa." The voice soared
upward. "Da, Ni, Sa." After a few moments Hawksworth guessed he must be
singing the names of the notes in the Indian scale. They were virtually
identical to the Western scale, except certain notes seemed to be a few
microtones higher or lower, depending whether approached from ascent or
descent.
The singer's voice soared slowly upward in pitch and volume, growing
more intense as it quavered around certain of the high notes, while the
sarangi player listened attentively and bowed the exact notes he sang,
always seeming to guess which note he would find next. The song was
melodic, and gradually what had at first seemed almost a dirge grew to
be a poignant line of beauty.
Suddenly the singer's voice cut the air with a fast-tempo phrase, which
was brief and immediately repeated, the second time to the
accompaniment of the drum, as both players picked up the notes. On the
third repetition of the phrase, the curtains on Arangbar's right were
swept aside and a young woman seemed to fairly burst across the room,
her every skipping step announced by a band of tiny bells bound around
her ankles and across the tops of her bare feet.
As she spun into the light, she whirled a fast pirouette that sent her
long braided pigtail--so long the end was attached to her waist--
whistling in an arc behind her. Her flowered silk tunic flew outward
from her spinning body, revealing all of her tight-fitting white
trousers. She wore a crown of jewels, straight pendant earrings of
emerald, and an inch- long string of diamonds dangled from the center
of her nose.
She paused for an instant, whirled toward Arangbar, and performed a
_salaam _with her right hand, fingers slightly bent, thumb across her
palm as she raised her hand to her forehead. The movement was possessed
of so much grace it seemed a perfect dance figure.
"May I take the liberty of interpreting for you, Ambassador?" Nadir
Sharif ignored the hookah mouthpiece that another, slightly tipsy,
guest was urging on him and slid closer to Hawksworth. "Kathak is an
art, like painting or pigeon-flying, best appreciated when you know the
rules." He pointed toward the dancer. "Her name is Sangeeta, and she
has just performed the invocation. For the Hindus it is a salute to
their elephant-headed god Ganesh. For Muslims, it is a _salaam_."
Next she turned slowly toward the guests and struck a pose, one foot
crossed behind the other, arms bent as though holding a drawn bow. As
the _sarangi _played a slow, tuneful melody, she seemed to control the
rhythm of the drums by quietly stroking together again and again the
thumb and forefinger of each hand. The explosive tension in her body
seemed focused entirely in this single, virtually imperceptible motion,
almost as a glass marshals the power of the sun to a tiny point. Then
her eyes began to dart from side to side, and first one eyebrow and
then the other lifted seductively. Gradually the rhythm was taken up by
her head, as it began to glide from side to side in a subtle, elegant
expression that seemed an extension of the music.
She had possessed the room almost as a spirit of pure dance, chaste,
powerful, disciplined, and there was nothing of the overt
suggestiveness of the nautch dancers of the Shahbandar's courtyard. She
wore a low-cut, tight vest of brocade over a long-sleeved silk shirt,
and of her body only her hands, feet, and face were visible. It was
these, Hawksworth realized, not her body, that were the elements of
Kathak dance.
"Now she'll begin the second section of the dance. It's the
introduction and corresponds to the opening of a raga. It sets the
atmosphere and makes you long for more. I know of no _feringhi _who has
ever seen Kathak, but perhaps you can understand. Do you feel it?"
Hawksworth sipped his wine slowly and tried to clear his head. In truth
he felt very little, save the intensity that seemed to be held in
check.
"It appears to be rather subtle. Very little seems to be happening."
Hawksworth drank again and found himself longing for a lively hornpipe.
"A great deal will happen, Ambassador, and very soon. In India you must
learn patience."
Almost at that moment the drummers erupted with a dense rhythmic cycle
and the _sarangi _took up a single repetitive phrase. Sangeeta looked
directly at Hawksworth and called out a complex series of rhythmic
syllables, in a melodic if slightly strident voice, all the while
duplicating the exact pattern of sounds by slapping the henna-reddened
soles of her feet against the carpet. Then she glided across the carpet
in a series of syncopated foot movements, saluting each of the guests
in turn and calling out strings of syllables, after which she would
dance a sequence that replicated the rhythm exactly, her feet a precise
percussion instrument.
"The syllables she recites are called _bols_, Ambassador, which are the
names of the many different strokes on the tabla drums. Drummers
sometimes call out a sequence before they play it. She does the same,
except she uses her feet almost as a drummer uses his hands."
As Hawksworth watched, Sangeeta called strings of syllables that were
increasingly longer and more complex. He could not understand the
_bols_, or perceive the rhythms as she danced them, but the drunken men
around him were smiling and swinging their heads from side to side in
what he took to be appreciative approval. Suddenly Arangbar shouted
something to her and pointed toward the first drummer. The drummer
beamed, nodded, and as Sangeeta watched, called out a dense series of
_bols_. Then she proceeded to dance the sequence with her feet. The
room exploded with cries of appreciation when she finished the
sequence, and Hawksworth assumed she had managed to capture the
instructions the musician had called. Then Arangbar pointed to the
other drummer and he also called out a string of _bols_, which again
Sangeeta repeated. Finally the singer called a rhythm sequence, the
most complex yet, and both dancer and drummer repeated them precisely
together.
As the tempo became wilder, Sangeeta began a series of lightning spins,
still pounding the carpet with her reddened soles, and in time she
seemed to transform into a whirling top, her pigtail loose now and
singing through the air like a deadly whip. She had become a blur, and
for a brief moment she appeared to have two heads. Hawksworth watched
in wonder and sipped from his wine cup.
"Now she'll begin the last part, Ambassador, the most demanding of
all."
The rhythm became almost a frenzy now. Then as suddenly as they had
begun the whirls ended. Sangeeta struck a statuesque pose, arms
extended in rigid curves, and began a display of intensely rhythmic
footwork. Her body seemed frozen in space as nothing moved save her
feet. The bells on her ankles became a continuous chime, increasing in
tempo with the drum and the _sarangi _until the rhythmic phrase itself
was nothing more than a dense blur of notes, Suddenly the drummer and
instrumentalist fell silent, conceding the room to Sangeeta's whirring
bells. She seemed, at the last, to be treading on pure air, her feet
almost invisible. When the intensity of her rhythm became almost
unbearable, the drummers and _sarangi _player reentered, urging the
excitement to a crescendo. A final phrase was introduced, repeated with
greater intensity, and then a third and final time, ending with a
powerful crash on the large drum that seemed to explode the tension in
the room. Several of the musicians cried out involuntarily, almost
orgasmically, in exultation. In the spellbound silence that followed,
the nobles around Hawksworth burst into cheers.
Sangeeta seemed near collapse as she bowed to Arangbar. The Moghul
smiled broadly, withdrew a velvet purse of coins from his cloak, and
threw it at her feet. Moments later several others in the room followed
suit. With a second bow she scooped the purses from the carpet and
vanished through the curtains. The cheers followed her long after she
was gone.
"What do you think, Ambassador? You know half the men here would give a
thousand gold _mohurs _to have her tonight." Nadir Sharif beamed
mischievously. "The other half two thousand."
"Come forward." Arangbar motioned to the singer sitting on the carpet.
He was, Hawksworth now realized, an aging, portly man with short white
hair and a painful limp. As he approached Arangbar's dais, he began
removing the tiny cymbals attached to the fingers of one hand that he
had used to keep time for the dancer.
"He's her guru, her teacher." Nadir Sharif pointed to the man as he
bowed obsequiously before the Moghul. "If His Majesty decides to select
Sangeeta to dance at the wedding, his fortune will be made. Frankly I
thought she was good, though there is still a trifle too much flair in
her style, too many tricks. But then she's young, and perhaps it's too
soon to expect genuine maturity. Still, I noticed His Majesty was taken
with her. She could well find herself in the _zenana_ soon."
Arangbar flipped another purse of coins to the man, and then spoke to
him curtly in Persian.
"His Majesty has expressed his admiration, and says he may call him
again after he has seen the other dancers." Nadir Sharif winked.
"Choosing the dancers is a weighty responsibility. Naturally His
Majesty will want to carefully review all the women."
The lamps brightened again and servants bustled about the carpet
filling glasses and exchanging the burned-out tobacco chillum, clay
bowls at the top of each hookah. When they had finished, Arangbar took
another glass of wine and signaled for the lamps to be lowered once
more. A new group of musicians began filing into the room, carrying
instruments Hawksworth had never before seen. First came the drummer,
who carried not the two short tabla drums but rather a single long
instrument, designed to be played at both ends simultaneously. A singer
entered next, already wearing small gold cymbals on each hand. Finally
a third man entered, carrying nothing but a piece of inch-thick bamboo,
less than two feet in length and perforated with a line of holes.
Arangbar looked quizzically at Nadir Sharif.
As though reading the question, the prime minister rose and spoke in
Turki. "This one's name is Kamala, Your Majesty. She is originally from
the south, but now she is famous among the Hindus in Agra. Although I
have never seen her dance, I assumed Your Majesty would want to humor
the Hindus by auditioning her."
"We are a sovereign of all our subjects. I have never seen this Hindu
dance. Nor these instruments of the south. What are they called?"
"The drum is called a mirdanga, Majesty. They use it in the south with
a type of sitar they call the veena. The other instrument is a bamboo
flute."
Arangbar shifted impatiently. "Tell them this should be brief."
Nadir Sharif spoke quickly to the musicians in a language few in the
room seemed to understand. They nodded and immediately the flautist
began a haunting lyric line that bathed the room in a soft, echoing
melody. Hawksworth was startled that so simple an instrument could
produce such rich, warm tones.
The curtains parted and a tall, elaborately jeweled woman swept across
the carpet. She took command of the space around her, possessed it,
almost as though it were part of her being. Her long silk _sari _had
been gathered about each leg so that it seemed like trousers, and her
every step was announced by dense bracelets of bells at her ankles.
Most striking, however, was her carriage. Hawksworth had never before
seen such dignity of motion.
As he stared at her, he realized she was wearing an immense, diamond-
encrusted nose ring and long pendant earrings, also of diamonds. Not
even the Moghul wore stones to equal hers. Her face was heavily
painted, but still he suspected she might no longer be in the first
bloom of youth. Her self-assurance was too secure. She knew exactly who
she was.
She turned her back to Arangbar as she reverently gave an invocation,
both hands together and raised above her head, to some absent god. The
only sound was the slow, measured cadence of the drum. Suddenly it
seemed as though her body had captured some perfect moment of balance,
a feeling of timelessness within time.
Hawksworth glanced toward Arangbar, whose irritation was obvious.
How can she be so imprudent as to ignore him? Aren't Hindus afraid of
him? What was her name? Kamala?
His eyes shot back to the woman.
Kamala.
Can she be the woman Kali spoke of that last night in Surat? The Lotus
Woman? Nadir Sharif said she was famous.
"Just who are you?" Arangbar's voice cut through the carpeted room,
toward the woman's back. He was speaking Turki, and he was outraged.
Kamala whirled on him. "One who dances for Shiva, in his
aspect as Nataraj, the god of the dance. For him and for him alone."
"What do you call this dance for your infidel god?"
"Bharata Natyam. The dance of the temple. The sacred tradition as old
as India itself. The god Shiva set the world in motion by the rhythms
of his dance. My dance is a prayer to Shiva." Kamala's eyes snapped
with hatred. "I dance for no one else."
"You were summoned here to dance for me." Arangbar pulled himself
drunkenly erect. Around the room the nobles began to shift uneasily,
their bleary eyes filling with alarm.
"Then I will not dance. You have the world in your hands. But you
cannot possess the dance of Shiva. Our dance is prescribed in the Natya
Shastra of the ancient sage Bharata. Over a thousand years ago he
declared that dance is not merely for pleasure; dance is the blending
of all art, religion, philosophy. It gives mankind wisdom, discipline,
endurance. Through dance we are allowed to know the totality of all
that is. My dance is not for your sport."
Arangbar's anger increased, but now it was leavened with puzzlement.
"If you will not dance your Shiva dance, then dance Kathak."
"The dance Muslims call Kathak is the perversion of yet another of our
sacred traditions. Perhaps there are some Hindu dancers who will, for
Muslim gold, debase the ancient Kathak dance of India, will make it a
display of empty technique for the amusement of India's oppressors.
Muslims and"--she turned and glared at Hawksworth--"now _feringhi_. But I
will not do it. The Kathak you want to see is no longer true Kathak. It
has been made empty, without meaning. I will never debase our true
Kathak dance for you, as others have done, any more than I will
dedicate a performance of Bharata Natyam to a mortal man."
The guards near the entrance of the _Diwan-i-Khas _had all tensed,
their hands dropping uneasily to their swords.
"I have heard enough. A man who dared speak to me as you have would be
sent to the elephants. You, I think, deserve more. Since you speak to
your god through dance, you do not need a tongue."
Arangbar turned to summon the waiting guards when, at the rear of the
_Diwan-i-Khas_, the figure of the Chief Painter emerged, his assistants
trailing behind. They carried a long, thin board.
Nadir Sharif spotted them and immediately leaped to his feet, almost as
though he had been expecting their entrance.
"Your Majesty." He quickly moved between Arangbar and Kamala, who stood
motionless. "The paintings have arrived. I'm ready for my horse. Let
the English ambassador see them now."
Arangbar looked up in confusion, his eyes half closed from the opium.
Then he saw the painters and remembered.
"Bring them in." Suddenly his alertness seemed to return. "I want to
see five Inglish kings."
The paintings were brought to the foot of Arangbar's dais, and he
inspected them drunkenly, but with obvious satisfaction.
"Ambassador Inglish. Have a look." Arangbar called toward the hushed
shadows of the seated guests. A path immediately cleared among the
bolsters, as hookahs were pushed aside, wineglasses seized.
Hawksworth walked unsteadily forward, his mind still stunned by the
imminent death sentence waiting for the woman. As he passed her, he
sensed her powerful presence and inhaled her musky perfume. There was
no hint of fear in her eyes as she stood waiting, statuesque and
defiant.
By the time he reached the throne, eunuchs were waiting with candles,
one on each side of the board, bathing it in flickering light. On it
was a line of five English miniatures of King James, each approximately
an inch square.
Good Jesus, they're identical. Am I so drunk I can't tell a painting of
King James?
He looked up shakily at Arangbar, whose smile was a gloat.
"Well, Ambassador Inglish. What say you? Are the painters of my school
equal to any your king has?"
"One moment, Majesty. Until my eyes adjust." Hawksworth grasped one
edge of the board to steady himself. Behind him there were murmurs of
delight and he caught the word "_feringhi_."
As he walked along the board, studying each painting in turn, he
suddenly noticed that the reflection of the candlelight was different
for one.
The paint is still wet on the new portraits. That's the difference. Or
is it? Are my eyes playing tricks? Damn me for letting Nadir Sharif
fill my wineglass every chance he had.
"Come, Ambassador Inglish. We do not have all night." Arangbar's voice
was brimming with triumph.
Hawksworth studied the paintings more closely. Yes, there's a slight
difference. The colors on the one painting are slightly different.
Duller.
They didn't use varnish. And there are fewer shadows. Theirs are more
two-dimensional.
"I'm astounded, Your Majesty. But I believe this is the one by Isaac
Oliver." Hawksworth pointed to the painting second from the right end.
"Let me see them again." Arangbar's voice was a husky slur. "I will
tell if you have guessed correctly."
The board was handed up. Arangbar glanced at the paintings for only an
instant. "You have guessed right, Ambassador Inglish. And I realize how
you did it. The light from the candles."
"The portraits are identical, Your Majesty. I confess it."
"So we have won our point. And you won the wager, Inglish. Still, you
won only because of my haste. Tomorrow you would not have known. Do you
admit it?"
"I do, Your Majesty." Hawksworth bowed slightly.
"So, you did not really win the wager after all. We lost it. But I am a
man of honor. We will release Nadir Sharif from his pledge. I am the
one who must pay. What would you have? Perhaps a diamond?"
"The wager was only for a horse, Your Majesty." Hawksworth was stunned.
"No. That was the wager of Nadir Sharif. You have won a wager from a
king. Yours must be the payment of a king. If not a jewel, then what
would you have?"
Before Hawksworth could reply, Nadir Sharif stepped forward and bent
toward Arangbar.
"If I may be allowed to suggest, Your Majesty, the _feringhi _needs a
woman. Give him this dancer. Let him amuse himself with her until you
can find a suitable wife for him."
Arangbar looked toward Hawksworth with glazed eyes. It was obvious he
had already forgotten about Kamala.
"The Kathak dancer who was here? She was excellent. Yes, that would be
perfect."
"Your Majesty of course means the woman standing here now." Nadir
Sharif directed Arangbar's groggy gaze toward Kamala, who stood mutely,
eyes flashing.
"There she is. Of course. What do you say to her, Inglish?"
Hawksworth was astounded by Nadir Sharifs quickness of wit. He's saved
the woman. He's a genius. Of course I'll take her. Good Jesus, there's
been enough bloodshed today.
"The woman would be the gift of a great prince, Your Majesty."
"So there's manhood about you after all, Inglish. I had begun to think
you were like your king." Arangbar laughed in delight. "So it's a woman
you would have, Ambassador? Merciful Allah, I have too many now.
Perhaps you would like two. I recall there's an Armenian Christian
somewhere in the _zenana_. Perhaps several. They're said to be as lusty
as the Portuguese harlots in Goa." He choked for a moment on laughter.
"Let me summon the eunuchs."
"This one will do for now, Your Majesty." Think how to phrase this.
"Merely to serve me."
"Yes, she will 'serve' you, Ambassador. Or we will have her head. If
she would amuse you, she's yours."
Kamala's look met Hawksworth's. It was strangely without emotion.
Then Arangbar suddenly remembered Kamala's defiance and turned to study
her again with half-closed eyes.
"But not this one. It must be the other one you want. This one will be
hanged tonight, in a room far beneath the _zenana_. After she has
answered for her words. Tomorrow her carcass will pollute the Jamuna. A
man in her place would already be dead."
"May it please Your Majesty, it would satisfy me even more to have this
one." Hawksworth paused. "Perhaps it's what the English call honor. We
both know I did not win our wager fairly. Only by taking something of
no value, like this woman, could I maintain my honor, and my king's."
"You are persuasive, Inglish, and I am drunk. But not too drunk to
suspect you've taken a fancy to this infidel. But if you prefer her to
the other, then so be it. We offered you whatever you wished. She's
yours. But never let her be seen on the streets of Agra again. We will
have her cut down."
"As please Your Majesty."
"It's done." Arangbar turned to Nadir Sharif. "Is it true you've found
a house for the Inglish?"
"I have, Your Majesty."
"Then send her there." He turned to Hawksworth. "Allah protect you from
these infidel Hindus, Inglish. They have none of your Inglish honor."
"I humbly thank Your Majesty." Jesus Christ, I've just been imprisoned
in a house staffed by Nadir Sharifs hand-picked spies.
"Enough. We've been told to retire early tonight. Her Majesty thinks we
drink to excess." He laughed a slurred chortle. "But we will see you
tomorrow, Inglish. To talk more. We have much to discuss. We want to
hear what gifts your king is preparing for us. We would very much like
a large mastiff from Europe. We hear they hunt game like a _chitah._"
Arangbar drew himself up shakily and two eunuchs immediately were at
his side, helping him from the white marble throne. None of the guests
moved until he had passed through the curtains. Immediately the eunuchs
began moving about the room, extinguishing the lamps. By the time the
guests assembled to leave, the room was virtually dark. Kamala and the
musicians had been escorted from the room by Arangbar's guards.
Suddenly Hawksworth felt Nadir Sharifs hand on his arm.
"That was a noble thing you did, Ambassador. We all owe you a debt of
thanks. I have rarely seen His Majesty so out of temper. The
repercussions could have been distressing for many of us."
"It was your idea."
"Merely a quick fancy, an act of desperation. But without your
cooperation it would have been impossible. I do thank you."
"There's nothing to thank me for." Hawksworth drew his arm away.
"Where's this house you've found for me?"
Nadir Sharif sighed. "Finding a secure lodging these days is more
difficult than you might first imagine, Ambassador. But you were in
luck. I remembered there's a small lodge in my palace grounds that is
unoccupied. I did not reckon on quarters for two, but of course the
woman will be living with your servants. The house should serve until
something more fitting can be found."
"My thanks." Damn you. "When do I move there?"
"Your effects have already been moved, on His Majesty's authority. You
can come tonight. My men will show you there. Your dinner is probably
waiting."
At that moment the last lamp was extinguished. Along with the other
guests they groped their way out of the _Diwan-i-Khas _in total
darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Many years ago I was a _devadasi_." Kamala sat, pillowless, on
the carpet, watching as Hawksworth ate. Her musicians, the flautist and
the drummer, knelt silently behind her. Nadir Sharif's servants stood
by, nervously attentive, pretending to ignore everyone but Hawksworth.
The white plaster walls of the lamp-lit room fairly flashed with
Kamala's diamonds. "Do you know what that is?"
Hawksworth shook his head, his mouth gorged with roast lamb. The room
was filled with its aroma. It was his first lamb since Burhanpur, and
he was ravenous.
"Does that mean yes?" Kamala's Turki was surprisingly good.
Hawksworth suddenly remembered the curious Indian
convention of swinging the head from side to side to signify
concurrence. He had meant to say no, which in Indian body language was
an almost un-reproducible twist of the neck. He swallowed the lamb and
reached for another shank.
"No. I meant no. Is that a kind of dancer?"
"It means 'a servant of the gods.' In South India there's a special
caste of women who serve in the great stone temples, who are married to
the god of the temple. When we are very young we have a marriage
ceremony, like any wedding. Except we are a bride of the temple. And
then we serve its god with music and with our dance."
Hawksworth examined her quizzically. "You mean you were like a nun?"
"What is that?"
"They're something like Papist priests. Women who give themselves to
God, or at least to the pope's Church." Hawksworth paused awkwardly.
"And claim to be married to Christ, so they never lie with a man."
Kamala looked at him with surprise.
"Not even the high-caste men who come to the temple? But how, then, do
they serve this Christian God? By dance only?"
"Nuns aren't known to do much dancing. They mainly . . . well, I don't
really know what they do, except claim to be virgins."
"Virgins!" Kamala exploded in laughter. "This Christian God must be a
eunuch. We _devadasis _serve the temple with our bodies, not with empty
words."
"Then what exactly did you do?" Hawksworth looked up and examined her.
"I was at the famous Shiva temple of Brihadishwari in Tanjore, the
great fountainhead of Bharata Natyam dance in India. There we danced
for the god of the temple, and we danced too at the courts of the
Dravidian kings of the south." She hesitated, then continued.
"Devadasis there also honor the temple god by lying with men of high
caste who come to worship, and by wearing the jewels they give us. It's
all part of our sacred tradition."
She laughed as she watched the disbelief flood Hawks-
worth's face. "I gather we must be quite different from your Christian
'nuns.' But you know _devadasis _are honored in the south. Many are
granted lands by the men they know, and though they can never marry,
_devadasis _sometimes become attached to a man and bear his children.
But our children always take our name and are dedicated to the temple.
Our daughters become _devadasis _also, and our sons temple musicians.
Our dance gurus are part of a hereditary guild, and they are esteemed
above all men. They are the ones who preserve and pass down the sacred
Bharata Natyam dance. You may not believe me when I tell you we are
highly revered by the kings who reign in the south, lands where the
Moghuls fear to tread. They know we are special among women. We are
cultivated artists, and among the few Hindu women in India who teach
our daughters to read and write."
"I'll believe you." Hawksworth studied her, not quite sure it was true.
"But if you're dedicated to a temple in the south, why are you here in
Agra?"
Kamala's dark eyes grew lifeless, and then she turned away. "I'm no
longer a true _devadasi_. In truth, I have not danced at my temple for
many years. The first time the Moghul's army invaded the south, a
Rajput officer who had deserted came to our temple to hide. He fell in
love with me and forced me to come with him when he returned to Agra,
telling me I must dance for him only." Her voice hardened. "But I never
danced for him, not once. And three years later he was killed in a
campaign in Bengal. Since that time I have had to live by my own hand.
For many years now I've lived by teaching dance to the _tavaifs _in
Agra."
"Who?"
"_Tavaifs_. Muslim dancing girls. Courtesans who live in beautiful
houses here and entertain men. There are many in Agra and in the city
of Lucknow to the east." Kamala's tone grew vague. "And I teach them
other things as well."
"But why did you insult the Moghul tonight? Do you really believe all
the things you said?"
"What I said was not a 'belief.' I don't understand what you mean by
that. Things either are or they are not. What does it matter whether we
'believe' them? But what I did was foolish, I agree. Impulsive. I so
despise the Moghuls. You know, I told the Moghul's prime minister this
afternoon I would never dance for Arangbar, that nothing could make me,
but he forced me to come anyway."
Hawksworth's eyes narrowed, and he dropped the shank of lamb he was
holding. "What did you say! Nadir Sharif knew all along you would
refuse to dance for Arangbar?"
"Of course he knew. And I knew Arangbar would order me killed. That's
why I wore all my diamonds. I thought if I was to die, it must be my
dharma."' She paused. "And you know, it's strange but I felt nothing.
Except perhaps pity for my pretty little courtesans. Some of them are
only girls, and I wondered who would teach them after I was gone."
Hawksworth was no longer listening. He was trying to remember the exact
sequence of what had happened in the _Diwan-i-Khas_.
He arranged it, the bastard. Even the paintings. Nadir Sharif played
with me like a puppet. Just so he could send her here. He knew I'd try
to save her. But why would he do it, and in such a way I was never
supposed to know? Is this so--called dancer supposed to be another of
his spies?
"You said you worshipped a god named Shiva. I thought Hindus worshiped
Krishna."
Kamala looked at him with surprise. "You know of Krishna? Yes, he is
the god worshiped by the Rajputs of the north. But he is a young god.
Lord Shiva is the ancient god of south India. He presides over the
generation of life. His lingam symbolizes the male half of the force
that created the universe."
"And I suppose you're about to tell me that's the part of him you
worship." Hawksworth kept a straight face.
"He is revered in many aspects, including Nataraj, the God of the
Dance. But yes, his lingam is worshiped. Have you seen the round stone
pillars wreathed in garlands of flowers?"
"As a matter of fact . . ." Hawksworth paused, then looked at her
sharply. "There was something of that sort in the porters' lodge of the
customs house at Surat, where my men and I were kept the morning we
arrived."
"Those pillars symbolize Shiva's lingam. Let me tell you about it.
Once, back in the time of the gods, Lord Shiva was burdened with
unhappiness. He was bereaved of his consort and weary with his being.
And he wandered into a forest, where there were sages and their wives.
But the sages scorned Lord Shiva, because he was haggard, and they
forsook him in his time of sadness. So he had to make his way through
the forest begging alms. However, the women of these sages felt love
for him, and they left the beds of their men and followed him. When the
sages saw their wives leaving to follow Shiva, they set a curse on him.
Their curse was that his lingam would fall to the ground. Then one day
Shiva did shed his lingam. And he was gone. Only his lingam remained,
emerging upright from the earth. It had become stone, and it was of
infinite length. All the other gods came to worship it, and told
mankind to do likewise. They said that if it was worshiped, Shiva's
consort, the goddess Parvati, would come to receive the lingam in her
_yoni_, and the earth would be made fertile. And even now we worship
the stone lingam, set erect with a stone _yoni _as its base. We honor
them with flowers and fire and incense. Shiva and Parvati are a symbol
of the creation of life." She looked at him, puzzling. "Don't
Christians have such a symbol?"
"Not quite like that one." Hawksworth suppressed a grin. "I guess the
main symbol for Christians is the cross."
"What do you mean?"
"Christians believe the Son of the Christian God came down to earth and
sacrificed Himself on a cross. So the cross became a symbol for that
act."
"Yes, I've seen that symbol. Jesuits wear them, covered with jewels.
But I never knew its meaning." Kamala paused, seeming to ponder the
idea. "Somehow though it seems very static. Surely there are other
symbols the Christians have, symbols more dynamic and powerful."
"I suppose Christians think it's pretty powerful."
"But don't Christians have any symbols like our bronze statues of the
Dancing Shiva? Lord Shiva, in his aspect as Nataraj, the God of the
Dance, embodies everything in the world."
"That's what you said to Arangbar." Hawksworth examined her and tried
to clear his mind of the wine. "But I don't understand why you think
symbols are so important, whatever their meaning."
"Symbols are a visible sign of things we know but can't actually see,
like an idea." Kamala's voice was soft and warm.
"All right. But it's hard to imagine how one symbol could contain
everything, no matter what it is."
"But the Dancing Shiva does, my handsome _feringhi_. Perhaps you have
not seen it. It came out of the great civilization of the south. Let me
explain it for you, and then perhaps you will understand why dance is
the deepest form of worship." Kamala rose, bells tinkling, and assumed
a dance posture, arms outstretched, one foot raised across the other.
Nadir Sharifs Muslim servants paused to stare in amazement. "The bronze
statues of Dancing Shiva have four arms, so you will have to imagine
the other two. One leg is crossed over the other and raised, as you see
now. And the figure stands inside a great circle of bronze." She made a
momentary sweep around her body with her hands. "On this circle are
flame tips everywhere pointing outward. The circle signifies the world
as we know it, the world of time and of things, and the flame tips are
the limitless energy of the universe. Lord Shiva dances within this
great circle, because he is everywhere. In fact, the universe itself
was created through his dance. And our world here is merely his _lila_,
his sport"
"You mean he created both good and bad? Christians believe there's evil
only because woman tempted man into sin somewhere along the way."
"Sin? What do you mean by that?" Kamala stared at him blankly for a
moment. "Whatever it is, Shiva created it. His dance created everything
in nature."
"What does he look like, besides having four arms?"
"First, he has long hair, which represents the hair of the yogi, the
contemplative one, and this long hair streams out from his head, to the
very ends of the universe, since he has all knowledge. And each of his
four arms has a different meaning. In this one, the upper right arm, he
holds a small drum, signifying sound, music and words, the first thing
that appeared in the universe. And in his left hand he holds a burning
fire, his symbol of destruction. He creates and he also destroys. His
lower right hand is held up in a sign." She held up her hand, palm out
as though in a blessing. "This is a _mudra_, part of the hand language
we use in the dance, and it means 'fear not'; it is his benediction of
peace. The fourth hand points down toward his feet. One foot is
crushing a repugnant, powerful dwarf, who represents man's willfulness,
and the other is held up against the forces of the earth, signifying
man's spiritual freedom." Kamala paused and looked at Hawksworth
hopefully. "Do you understand? Do you see how the Dancing Shiva
symbolizes everything--space, time, creation, destruction? And also
hope."
Hawksworth scratched his head in silent confoundment. Kamala watched
him, then sighed and resumed her seat on the floor.
"Then just try to feel what I am saying. Words really cannot express
these ideas as well as dance. When we dance we invoke the energy, and
the life force, that moves through the world, outside its great cycles
of time."
Hawksworth picked up his wineglass and drew on it. "To tell the truth,
I find your Hindu symbols a trifle abstract."
"But they're not, really. They merely embody truths already within us.
Like the life force. We do not have to think about it. It's simply
there. And we can reach out and experience this force when woman and
man join together in union. That is our _lila_, our play. That's why we
worship Lord Shiva with dance, and with _kama_."
As Hawksworth watched, sipping his wine and scarcely understanding her
words, he realized he had begun to desire this bizarre woman intensely.
"You haven't told me what _kama _is."
"That's because I'm not sure you can understand." She scrutinized him
professionally. "How old are you?"
"I'm closer to forty than thirty."
"Time, I think, has treated you harshly. Or is it the spirits you
drink?"
"What's wrong with a bit of grog now and then?"
"I think you should not drink so much. I drink nothing. Look at me."
She pushed back the hair from both sides of her forehead. Her face was
flawless. "You know most Muslims despise their women after thirty,
usually before, but many young officers still ask to visit me. Can you
guess how old I am?"
"A woman only asks that if she thinks she looks younger than she is."
"I'm over fifty." She examined him directly, invitingly. "How much over
you must only speculate."
"I don't want to. I'm still trying to figure out what exactly happened
tonight." He studied her. "But whatever it was, I'm not sure I care
anymore."
Hawksworth shoved aside his plates of lamb and rice pilaf and watched
as the servants began hastily clearing the carpet.
In the quiet that followed he reached behind him to his chest, opened
the latch, and took out his lute. Kamala watched with curiosity.
"What instrument is that?"
"Someone in Surat once called it an English sitar."
Kamala laughed. "It's far too plain for that. But it does have a simple
beauty. Will you play it for me?"
"For you, and for me." Hawksworth strummed a chord. The white plaster
walls echoed back the wave of notes, a choir of thin voices. "It brings
back my sea legs when I'm ashore."
"Now I do not understand you. But I will listen."
He began a short, plaintive galliard. Suddenly his heart was in London,
with honest English faces, clear English air. And he felt an
overwhelming ache of separation. He played through to the end, then
wistfully laid the lute aside. After a moment Kamala reached for his
wineglass and held it for him, waiting.
"The music of your English sitar is simple, young Ambassador. Like the
instrument itself. But I think it moves you. Perhaps I felt something
of your loneliness in the notes." She paused and studied him quietly.
"But you yourself are not simple. Nothing about you comes easily. I
sense you are filled with something you cannot express." She looked at
him a moment longer, and then her voice came again, soft as the wine.
"Why did you say what you did to Arangbar tonight? I was nothing to
you. You violated my _dharma_. Perhaps it is true, as many tell me,
that I have mastered the arts of _kama _more fully than any woman in
Agra, but still there is less and less pleasure in my life. What will
you do now? Perhaps you think I belong to you, like some courtesan you
have bought. But you are wrong. I belong to no man."
"You're here because someone wanted you here." Hawksworth glanced
around them. The room was empty now save for Kamala's two musicians. "I
don't know why, but I do know you're the first person I've met in a
long time who was not afraid of Arangbar. The last one was a woman in
Surat." Hawksworth paused suddenly. "I'm starting to wonder if you know
her."
"I don't know anyone in Surat." She swept him with her eyes. "But what
does some woman in Surat have to do with me?'
"Perhaps someone thought I should meet you."
"Who? Someone in Surat? But why?"
"Perhaps she thought I needed . . . I don't know exactly."
"Then tell me what you mean by 'need'? That's an odd phrase, a
_feringhi _expression. Perhaps you mean our meeting is part of your
_dharma_?"
"You mean like it's a Rajput's _dharma _to be a warrior and kill?"
"_Dharma_ can be many things. It's what each of us must do, our
purpose."
"That's something I've heard before."
"But do you know what your _dharma_ is?"
"I'm still trying to find it. Maybe it's to be here . . ."
"And then what?"
"I'm . . . I guess I'm still working out the rest."
"Well, for Hindus there's a second aim in life besides our honoring our
dharma. We call it _artha_. That aim is to have things. Knowledge,
wealth, friends. Is that part of why you're here?" Kamala smiled
scornfully. "Some merchants seem to believe _artha _is their primary
aim."
"It can't be for me. I somehow always manage to lose whatever I have."
"Hindus also believe there's a third aim in life, my handsome
_feringhi_. And that's _kama_. It's to take pleasure in the senses."
"I think I like the sound of that better than the other two."
"Do not speak of it lightly. For Hindus it is just as essential as the
other two aims. _Kama _is taught by Lord Shiva and his consort Parvati.
It means love, pleasure, the primal force of desire." She stared at
Hawksworth for a long moment, and then at the lute standing in the
corner. "Music is part of _kama_. It's one way we experience beauty and
pleasure. That's the _kama _of the heart. But there's also _kama _of
the body, and I do not think you yet know it. Your music betrays you.
You are a man of sensuality." Kamala looked at him regretfully. "But
not of the sensuous. Do you even understand the difference?"
"How do you know what I am?"
"Remember I was once a _devadasi_. It's my _dharma _to know the hearts
of men. Who they are and what gives them pleasure." She fell silent for
a moment, then continued. "The sensualist is one who only knows his own
feelings; the one who is sensuous knows also how to give."
Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably, uncertain how to reply.
"Do you, Ambassador _Feringhi_, touch a woman with the same feeling you
touch the strings of your English sitar?"
"I don't see any connection."
"The arts of _kama _are not unlike the mastery of your sitar. You can
spend a lifetime learning to sound its notes, but you do not create
music unless your hand is in touch with your heart, with _prahna_, the
breath of life. It's the same with _kama_." She paused discreetly.
"Have you ever known it with a woman in India?"
"Well . . . I knew a courtesan in Surat who . . ."
Kamala's eyes hardened, but her voice remained dulcet. "Is this the
woman you spoke of?"
"No, this was a different woman. Her name was Kali and she was thrown
out of Arangbar's _zenana_."
"Ah, she was probably badly trained. But still. Did you feel the force
of _kama_ with this Surat courtesan?"
Hawksworth shifted again, uneasily. "That's not the type of thing we
normally talk about in England."
"Don't be foolish. You judge the skill of a musician. Why not of a
courtesan?" She turned and said something Hawksworth did not
understand. Both musicians immediately rose and moved a screen across
the corner of the room where they were sitting. Then, from behind the
screen came the first notes of a simple, poignant melody, the soft
tones of the bamboo swelling slowly to envelop the room in their
gentleness. "I have asked him to play the _alap_, the opening section,
of a south Indian raga for you. To help you understand. His music has
the life breath of _prahna_. He speaks to Lord Shiva with his music.
_Kama_ too must come from the heart. If we are worthy, we evoke the
life-giving power within us." Her eyes snapped back to Hawksworth. "But
tell me more about this Surat courtesan."
"Perhaps I'm not entirely qualified to judge. She certainly knew more
tricks than most women in England."
"That's not surprising. It's well known _feringhi _women know nothing
of pleasure." Kamala paused and studied Hawksworth carefully with her
dark eyes. "But I've never known a _feringhi _who could move my senses
with music. You did that just now, even though I don't understand how.
I cannot dance for you; that is for Shiva. But I want to touch you."
She shifted on the carpet until she was at Hawksworth's feet. With a
gentle motion she removed a boot and quickly ran a finger across one
toe. Nerves throughout his body tingled unexpectedly.
"What did you do just then?"
"The secret of _kama _is touch. To touch and be touched by one we
desire always gives pleasure. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Is that _kama_?"
"A very small part."
"You know, the courtesan in Surat actually told me about you. She said
you had a book . . . an ancient text."
Kamala laughed and began to remove the other boot. "And I've always
heard that _feringhi _think everything can be put in books. You
probably mean the _Kama Sutra_. Whoever told you about it has probably
never seen it. Of course I have it, and I can tell you it is one of the
great frauds of India. It was compiled by a musty scholar named
Vatsyayana, who obviously knew nothing about giving pleasure, and
simply copied things here and there from much older books. It's
amusing, perhaps, but it's also pedantic and ignorant. It's certainly
not sensuous, and the reason is he knew nothing about desire. He
probably had none. He only knew how to make lists of things, like ways
of biting and scratching during love play, but he had no idea why these
are exciting."
She stroked the other foot very lightly along the arch with her long
red fingernail, and again a bolt of sensation shot through him.
"I'm beginning to see your point."
"I don't think you understand anything yet. Did you know the pleasure,
the power, the beauty possible in your music on the very first day you
touched a string of this instrument?"
"I knew there was something in music that moved me, but I wasn't sure
what it was."
"And now, many years later, you know." She shifted next to him and
began unfastening the bells on her ankles. They chimed gently as she
carefully laid them aside. Then she opened a small silver box she had
brought and placed a red dot in the middle of her forehead, just below
the pendant jewel.
"I sense the first stirrings of _kama _inside me now. The awakening of
desire. And because I feel it, I know you must feel it too." She
loosened his doublet and pushed him gently against the bolster. The
notes of the flute wound through the dark air around them. Kamala
listened a moment in silence, then slowly rose off the bolster.
She stood before him, holding his gaze with her eyes, and pulled away
the heavy, jeweled belt at the waist of her dance sari. She dropped it
at his feet, never averting her eyes. Then she made a half turn and
twisted her hip gracefully into a voluptuous bulge. The silk clung even
tighter to the statuesque curve of her legs as she crossed her feet
with an almost ceremonial deliberation. Wordlessly she slowly drew the
silk end of the _sari _from across her shoulder and let it drop before
her, revealing the curve of a perfectly spherical breast. Seen from
behind her body was fixed in a perfect double curve, a sensuous "S"
whose top was the full line of her half-revealed breast and whose
bottom was the rounded edge of her hip.
In those few simple motions she had transmuted her body, as though
through some deep cultural memory, into an ancient fertility totem, a
prayer for the bounty of the human loins. It was, Hawksworth suddenly
realized, a pose identical to that of a statue he'd seen in a mossy
temple in Mandu, on the way north from Burhanpur. It was the essence of
the female principle, sharing with the earth itself the power of life.
That stone goddess had automatically stirred his desire, as it had the
desire of man thousands of years before, as it was meant to do. Now it
stood before him.
Before he could move, she turned again and swept up the pleats of silk
that comprised the front of her _sari_. She whipped the loose ends of
silk about her head once, twice, and magically it seemed to evaporate
from her body. All that remained was a small drape of silk about her
waist, held in place by a thin band of jade.
Her body was like ivory, perfect from the band at her neck to the small
rings on her toes, and her breasts billowed full and geometrically
round, a long necklace of pearls nestled between them. As Hawksworth
stared at her dumbfounded, the drummer commenced a finely metered
rhythm timed exactly with his heartbeat.
She moved to Hawksworth's side and slid her left hand beneath his open
doublet. "The very first note of a raga can contain everything if it is
sounded with _prahna_. And the first touch between a man and a woman
can become the OM, the syllable that carries the totality of creation."
Her hand glided over his body with the gentleness of a feather, and in
moments his ambassador's ensemble slipped away like some superfluous
ancient skin. He looked at her again, still overwhelmed by her physical
perfection, and reached to touch the curve of her breast.
Her hand stopped his in midair.
"Shiva, in his dance, had four hands. But he did not use them for
touch. Do you want to feel the touch of my breasts? Then feel them with
your body."
She guided him over, across the round bolster, then rose above him.
"Your body is hard and firm, like the stone lingam of Shiva. But your
skin still has a hidden softness, like a covering of raw silk."
He felt the hard touch of her nipple as it began to trace the crease of
his back. It moved slowly, tantalizingly, trailing just at the skin.
Now the musk of her perfume had begun to hover about his head, fogging
his mind even more. But the sensation of her touch, and the knowledge
it was the breast he wanted exquisitely to hold, attuned his starved
senses to everything around him, even the quiet rhythm of her breath.
Suddenly, without warning, she slid the tip of her long red fingernail
sharply down the same crease in his back, where his nerves strained for
sensation. He felt a delicious burst of pain, and whirled to meet her
smiling eyes.
"What . . .?"
"Do you see now how your sense of touch can be awakened? Now you may
touch my breasts, but only with the nails of your fingers. Here."
She drew him to his feet and twined one leg about his body, her heel in
the small of his back, enveloping him with her warmth as though it were
a cloak. Then she embraced him with her thighs and took his hands in
her own, forcing a pattern of scratches on each of her breasts with his
nails. Each was different, and each time she pressed his hand, she
named the shape of, the mark. Her breathing grew increasingly rapid
from the pain, and soon both her breasts were decorated with a garland
of hard red lines.
At last Hawksworth tried to speak, but she seized his lower lip between
her teeth while her nails quickly imprinted a pattern of identical
scratches across his own chest. He found the pain oddly exhilarating.
It seemed to flow between their bodies, attuning them deeply one to the
other. Instinctively he moved to take her, but she twined herself even
tighter about him, unattainable. Then, when he thought he could endure
it no longer, she lowered herself easily against the bolster.
He scarcely noticed as the pace of the drum intensified.
"Remember, you cannot touch with your hands. Anything else is allowed."
The wine had saturated his mind, but now he found the pleasure of
desiring of her body overwhelming. He moved across her lightly with the
tip of his tongue, first tasting her lips, then her dark nipples, then
the ivory-smooth arch beneath her arms. There her skin was soft as a
child's and so sensitive he caused her to shudder involuntarily. He
teased her slowly, languorously, until she erupted with cries of
pleasure. Then he moved his tongue slowly down her body, trailing the
circle of the navel lightly to find the few light wisps of down she had
failed to banish. These he teased lightly with his breath until he
sensed she could endure it no longer. Then he traced his sex along the
inside of her thighs, upward to the fringe of her silk wrap, until at
last they were both lost in desire.
With a quick motion she rose and drew astride his body, still scarcely
touching him. The silk at her waist came away in her hands and without
a sound she twined it into a moist rope. Kneeling above him now she
drew it slowly across the tips of her own nipples, then across his.
Then she pulled the binding of jewels from her hair and with a toss of
her head spread the dark strands across his chest. As he watched, she
seized the ends of her hair and began to draw them slowly, expertly,
against the sensitive underside of the phallus that stood beneath her.
Her breath came in short bursts as she drew close enough to tease her
own sex as well.
He knew he had lost when he felt his last attempts at restraint
dissolve. Then her breath told him she had lost as well. With their
eyes joined, each exquisitely aware of the other's imminent resolution,
she quickly slipped her left hand beneath her and caught the uppermost
tip of the phallus with her nails, holding it taut, the pain
intensifying his pleasure.
She had directed the pulse at the point of her own ecstasy, guiding the
warm seed exactly as she wanted, against her own hard bud. As it struck
her, she gave the _sitkrita _cry of release and with a hard shudder
fell across him, loin against loin, exquisitely replete.
As the drummer pounded the final _sum _of the raga, Hawksworth realized
she used his resolution to bring her own. Without their bodies
touching.
The room lay silent about them, as though enfolded in their content.
Only their hard breath remained.
"I never knew lovemaking could be so intense." He startled himself by
his own admission.
"Because I loved you with more than just with my body." She smiled at
him carefully and reached out to touch the marks on his chest. "But
that was merely the first stage of _kama_. Are you ready now for the
second?"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nadir Sharif studied the pigeon as it glided onto the red
sandstone ledge and rustled its feathers in exhausted satisfaction. It
cocked its white-spotted head for a moment as it examined the prime
minister, then waddled contentedly toward the water cup waiting just
inside the carved stone pigeon house.
He immediately recognized it as one of the birds he kept stationed in
Gwalior, his last pigeon stage en route to Agra from the south. The
cylinder bound to its leg, however, was not one of his own. Imprinted
on its silver cap was the seal of the new Portuguese Viceroy of Goa,
Miguel Vaijantes.
Nadir Sharif waited patiently for the pigeon to drink. He knew well the
rewards of patience. He had waited patiently, studying the _feringhi_,
for a full week. And he had learned almost all he needed to know.
The Englishman had been invited to durbar every day since his arrival.
Arangbar was diverted by his stories and bemused by his rustic gifts.
(The only gift that had not entertained Arangbar was the book of maps
he had wheedled out of the Englishman, which upon inspection showed
India as something far less than the greatest continent on the globe.
But Arangbar found the map's rendering of India's coastline to be
sufficiently naive to cast the accuracy of the entire book into
question.) This was the first _feringhi _Arangbar had ever met who
could speak Turkish and understand his native Turki, and the Moghul
rejoiced in being able to snub the Jesuits and dispense with their
services as translators.
But most of all, Arangbar loved to challenge the Englishman to drinking
bouts, as night after night they matched cups in the _Diwan-i-Khas
_until near midnight. As Arangbar and the Englishman drew closer, the
Jesuits had grown distraught to near madness. The hard-drinking
Englishman bragged of the East India Company and its bold plans for
trade, of the old Levant Company and its disputes with Spain over
Mediterranean routes, of English privateering in the West Indies. Of
everything . . . except when the next voyage would come.
Nadir Sharif had listened closely to their expansive talk all those
nights, and he had finally deciphered to his own satisfaction the
answer to the question uppermost in Arangbar's mind.
The Englishman is bluffing. England has no fleet. At least no fleet
that can ever hope to threaten Portuguese control of the Indian Ocean.
There'll be no more voyages, and no more presents, for at least a year.
The Englishman is living a fool's dream.
When his European presents are gone, and he's spent what's left of his
money buying jewels and gifts for the Moghul, he'll be dropped from
court. Arangbar plays him like a puppet, always hinting the _firman
_will be ready tomorrow. But there'll be no _firman _unless Arangbar
can be convinced the English king is powerful enough to protect Indian
shipping from Portuguese reprisals at sea. And this the English clearly
cannot do. At least not now, not without a fleet. The Englishman is
living on borrowed time.
And I'm beginning to think he suspects it himself. He drinks more than
a man in his place should. He's always able to stay in control, but
just barely. If Arangbar were not always drunk himself, he would have
noticed it also.
Nadir Sharif glanced at the silver cylinder and smiled to himself. So
His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, is worried. Undoubtedly he's
demanding I contain the Englishman, isolate him from Arangbar.
It will hardly be necessary. The Englishman is destined to be forgotten
soon. How much longer can he hold the Moghul's attention? A month? Two
months? I know his supply of trifles for Arangbar is already half
depleted.
But why burden the Viceroy with this insight? Bargain with him. Let him
pay enough and I will guarantee with my life that the sun will rise
tomorrow morning. The end of the Englishman is no less sure.
Nadir Sharif stroked the pigeon lovingly as he began to unwind the silk
binding holding the cylinder, and it reminded him again of the Deccan.
Still no pigeons from Mumtaz. How curious that her one dispatch in the
last month, the one brought by the Rajput, was merely to request that
small accommodation for the Englishman. Who knows why she asked it?
Perhaps it was a joke of the prince's.
Nadir Sharif congratulated himself on how easy it had been. The
Englishman had never known.
And it was obvious the woman Kamala _had _changed him, smoothed him.
Was the prince grooming him for something? If so, why send the request
through Mumtaz? Whatever the reason, it had been a pleasure to grant
this one favor for the daughter he doted on. He also realized it might
well be the last favor he could ever do for her.
It was clear now that Prince Jadar would be banished from Agra forever.
The events of the next four weeks were inexorable.
Today Arangbar's birthday celebrations begin. Next week Allaudin will
be guest of honor at a _shikar_, a royal hunt. Two weeks after that,
the wedding formalities begin, and the following week is the wedding
itself. Four weeks and Jadar will be finished. Even if he returned to
Agra today, he could not forestall the inevitable.
Nadir Sharif took the pigeon on his wrist and offered it a few grains
of soaked _dal_ from his own hand as he gently slipped off the silver
cylinder. When the bird was pecking contentedly he eased it onto the
ledge, twisted away the silver cap of the cylinder, and settled against
the rooftop divan to translate the cipher.
The morning wind from the Jamuna grew suddenly chill against his skin.
Then, as the message slowly emerged, the wind from the Jamuna became
ice.
Nadir Sharif translated the cipher again, to be sure. But there could
be no mistaking what it said. Or what it meant. He would have declared
its contents an absurd hoax, perhaps even a hoax inspired by the
Englishman, had not the message been intercepted by the Portuguese, by
capture of one of Jadar's own pigeons.
The cipher did not say so, but doubtless a copy had also been sent to
Arangbar. Even had it not, the Moghul still would hear the news within
the day. His own intelligence network was the best in India, after that
of the queen.
He closed the door of the pigeon house, picked up a small silver bell
beside the divan, and rang lightly. Almost before he had replaced the
bell, a eunuch was waiting.
"Your pleasure, Sharif Sahib."
"The Englishman. Where is he now?"
"In the garden, Sharif Sahib. He's always there at this time of day,
with the Hindu woman."
"What's he doing there?"
"Who can say, Sharif Sahib? All we know is he goes into the garden
every day around noon--I think the Hindu woman may be teaching him to
play the sitar there--before going to _durbar _in the Red Fort. But he
will be leaving soon now, as you must, to be present for His Majesty's
birthday weighings."
"The English _feringhi _was invited?" Nadir Sharif was momentarily
startled.
"He received an invitation, Sharif Sahib."
"Bring him to the reception room. I will see him now, before he
leaves."
The eunuch snapped around and was gone. Nadir Sharif paused to
translate the cipher one last time before ringing for his turban.
"Ambassador Hawksworth, please forgive my preoccupation these past few
days." Nadir Sharif was bowing, it seemed, unusually low. "We're not
always privileged to entertain our guests as we might wish.
Preparations for today's birthday ceremonies have kept me rushing about
the palace. But please, be seated."
Hawksworth's gaze swept the room. It was cavernous, hung with thick
tapestries on every wall, and lightly perfumed with rose incense.
Before he could reply a bowing servant was proffering a chalice of
Persian wine. As Nadir Sharif watched a glass being poured, his voice
continued, silken.
"Have you found anything here to pass the time? They tell me you've
developed an interest in the sitar. A marvelous instrument really. And
in my garden. Tell me, what do you think of it?"
"I can't decide." Hawksworth felt his caution rising automatically, as
it did any time he found himself alone with Nadir Sharif. "It reminds
me of some of the Tudor gardens connected with English castles, but
still it's different. I like the precise geometry of the walkways and
hedges, and the running water. It's a soothing place to sit and
practice."
"So you find the Persian garden soothing? It is Persian, you know. The
whole idea of a symmetrical garden comes from Persia. Not from this
barbarous wasteland." Nadir Sharif motioned him to a bolster, and
paused until he was seated. "Yes, it's soothing. I agree with you. But
of course, that's one of the purposes of a garden." Nadir Sharif eased
himself against a bolster and accepted a glass of _sharbat_. "It
pleases me that you enjoy my garden. You see, Ambassador, to a man in
the desert, an oasis, a spot of water and green, is like a paradise. So
we sometimes believe we are creating a bit of Allah's Paradise when we
create a garden. You know, the Holy Quran itself tells us that Paradise
will be something like a garden."
"But whose idea was it to build Persian gardens here?"
"When the first Moghul conqueror arrived in India, almost a century
ago, he declared the land here around Agra to be particularly barren
and depressing. So he immediately built a Persian garden. But we must
all do our share, so today there are many gardens, all over India. The
garden, you see, is our tribute to nature."
"But why so geometrical? Your garden uses water, stones, and plants to
create designs that seem almost like the marble floors of your palace."
"Mathematics, Ambassador, principles of law. Islam is the rule of law.
Why do you think we have so many mathematicians? I deliberately
designed this garden with calculated geometric divisions. It provides
me great satisfaction to impose order on the willfulness of nature."
"But why are the stone pathways all elevated above the level of the
garden? In English gardens they're at ground level and lined with
shrubs."
"But surely that's obvious as well. Our gardens are really concealed
waterways, with water constantly flowing from one end to the other. We
must put the walkways above the water." Nadir Sharif waved his hand.
"But all of that is merely mechanics. The garden is where we find
peace. It's where we wait to greet the spring, whose arrival we
celebrate at the Persian New Year."
Nadir Sharif strolled to a window and looked out on the garden. "Spring
in India seems to come up from the south. It's said that buds appear
each day a few _kos _farther north, like a tender army on the march.
But we Persians believe that spring must have a haven if she is to
stay. And that's another reason we build gardens."
"I don't understand."
"There's a famous poem in Persian, by the poet Farrukhi, about gardens
and spring. He once wrote of a place where spring always arrived
feeling lowly and despised, because there was no land for her save
desert, a place of rocks and thistles. But then a rich man--actually the
patron of Farrukhi, whom he was writing to flatter--built a garden for
her and the next year spring came forth from the south and found a home
there." Nadir Sharif smiled. "In fact the poem begins by comparing
spring's original arrivals to that of a bankrupt _feringhi's_, who
appeared with no carpet, no livelihood. But after spring discovered the
garden, she brought from the south turquoise for the willows, rubies
for the rose."
Nadir Sharif smiled. "What do you think of Farrukhi's poem,
Ambassador?"
"What do you mean?"
"Curiosity. I was wondering what are the chances that spring will come
again from the south this year? Did the 'bankrupt _feringhi_ merely
come to see if the garden was ready? Was the first arrival of spring
false, with the real arrival yet to come?"
Hawksworth studied Nadir Sharifs face. "I don't understand what you're
trying to say. But I would like to know if you've spoken to His Majesty
about the _firman_."
"Please believe I mention it daily. I think now he'll soon agree to
terms."
"Then there's nothing yet?" Hawksworth set down the glass of wine. "I
assumed that was why you wanted to speak to me. But you just wanted to
talk about Persian gardens and Persian poets."
"Ambassador, I'm not a man for idle talk. Surely we know each other
better than that." Nadir Sharif turned and banished the servants and
eunuchs with a wave of his hand.
"Tell me. I know you met Prince Jadar once. Give me your honest
opinion. Do you think he's a clever man?"
Hawksworth nodded noncommittally.
"I can assure you, Ambassador, that he's very clever indeed. Even his
staunchest detractors would agree on that. And he's also resourceful.
Not many here are aware he has a full intelligence network of his own.
He does not, of course, have access to the dispatches of the official
court reporters in the provinces, the _wakianavis_, or the dispatches
of His Majesty's confidential reporters, the _harkaras_." Nadir Sharif
paused. "At least we do not think he has access to their reports. But
in a way he doesn't really need them. You see, he has his own system of
reporters, which we know he began creating over two years ago. Spies
whose identity is carefully guarded. We do not know any of their names,
but we do know he calls them his _swanih-nigars_, and they prepare
detailed information on anything in the provinces he asks them to. His
network is extensive and, I understand, quite effective."
Hawksworth suddenly found himself remembering Shirin, the papers in the
observatory, and wondering . . .
"Naturally he has agents along the southern coast. But at times they
can be a bit too careless about the information they gather. For
example, a cipher intended for the prince-- sent by one of Jadar's
secret _swanih-nigars _stationed in Cochin, on the far southern end of
the Malabar Coast--was just intercepted by a Portuguese shipping agent
at the port of Mangalore, down the coast south of Goa. The message was
of great interest to the Portuguese, and they saw fit to forward it to
me. What do you suppose the message contained?"
Hawksworth pulled himself alert.
"I have no idea."
"Tell me, Ambassador. The East India Company does trade on Java, am I
correct?"
"Six years ago the Company established a factory . . . a trading
station . . . at Bantam, the main port on the island."
"Was there a voyage to Bantam this year?"
"The _Discovery_ was bound for Bantam this year, with cargo from
Surat."
"Ambassador, the time for games is over. Your charade has made things
very difficult for those of us who would try to help you." Nadir Sharif
studied Hawksworth deliberately, almost sadly. "It would have been
helpful if you had told me everything sooner. It's embarrassing that I
must receive my information through captured intelligence, when I'm
authorized to serve as your agent. I'm sure it will not surprise you
that the Portuguese Viceroy, His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, is most
disturbed at the news. There will be consequences."
"What are you talking about?"
"The cipher for Jadar. You could have told me sooner of your king's
plans. It would have made all the difference." Nadir Sharif stared
coldly at Hawksworth. "There's no longer any need to pretend you don't
know. The fleet was sighted off the Malabar Coast, by coastal fishing
barks, only three days ago. Four armed frigates, showing English
colors, with a course north by northwest, which means they will stand
to sea and avoid the Portuguese patrols along the coast. It was only by
the slightest chance that they were seen. And then another accident
that the cipher intended for Jadar was intercepted. Otherwise no one
would have known. It was very resourceful of your East India Company,
Ambassador, to have a second fleet sail up our west coast from the
English factory at Java. Unless the Portuguese had intercepted and
decoded Jadar's cipher, they would have been taken completely by
surprise. Now they estimate the English fleet is scheduled to reach
Surat within the month. Unless they are met and engaged . . . which
they most assuredly will be."
The perfumed air of midmorning still seemed to hover above the inner
courtyard of Arangbar's palace as Hawksworth approached its towering
wooden gates. The astonishing news of the English fleet had sent his
spirits soaring, and he had donned his finest doublet and hose for the
occasion. As scimitared eunuchs scrutinized his gilded invitation and
bowed obsequiously for him to pass, he suddenly felt he was walking
through the portals of a Persian dreamland.
For the past two months servants and slaves had toiled through the
crisp autumn nights transforming the courtyard of the Red Fort's inner
palace from an open-air marble arcade into a vast, magnificent
reception room for Arangbar's five-day lunar birthday fete. The
surrounding galleries had been softened with rich carpets, their walls
cloaked in new tapestries; and in the central square a flowering
garden, freshened by interlocking marble fountains, had appeared out of
nothing. In this new garden time had ceased to flow, night and day knew
not their passage one into the other, for the sky itself was now a vast
canopy of imperial red velvet, embroidered in gold and held aloft by
silver-sheathed poles forty feet high and the size of ship's masts. The
horizons of this velvet sky were secured to protruding stone eyelets
along the second-story galleries by multicolored cotton cords the
thickness of cable.
The centerpiece of the upcoming celebration was an enormous balance,
the scale on which Arangbar's yearly weight would be taken. By that
weight his physicians would foretell the future estate of his body, and
if his weight had increased since the previous year, there was
universal rejoicing. But, greater or less, his weight always seemed to
augur well for India. His physicians inevitably found it reason to
forecast another hundred years of his benevolent rule.
Nor was the balance itself suggestive of anything less than a
portentous occasion. The measure of a king demanded kingly measures.
Its weighing pans were two cushioned platforms, gilded and inlaid with
jewels, suspended from each end of a central beam by heavy gold chains
interwoven with silken cords. The beam itself, and its supports, were
carved from rosewood, inlaid with jewels, and plated with gold leaf.
This event of universal joy was never witnessed by more than a few of
Arangbar's closest circle. The first tier of court officials were
permitted in watch, family members, favored officers with rank over
five thousand horse, and a minuscule list of select foreign
ambassadors.
Hawksworth tried to look formal and attentive, but his mind was still
reeling from the news. All the way to the Red Fort he had tried to sort
out the implications.
That crafty bastard Spencer. He well deserves to be Director of the
East India Company. It's perfect. He timed it perfectly.
Why did he decide to send a second voyage? Did they accidentally
rendezvous with the _Discovery_ at Bantam? Or was it no accident? Could
Elkington have ordered them north? Or maybe it's some sort of scheme
with the Hollanders? Who could the Captain-General be?
Spencer, you deceiving whoremaster. You double-crossed Elkington, never
told him about the letter from King James, and now you, or somebody,
has double-crossed me.
Or saved the mission.
There's sure to be a bounty of gifts for Arangbar. If they can make it
around Goa, and avoid the Portugals. . .
"Ambassador, this way." Nadir Sharif was standing near the balance,
motioning him to the front.
"Ambassador, His Majesty is overjoyed at the news of the English fleet.
He has asked that I seat you here, next to me, so I may translate the
Persian for you and allow you to prepare a full report to your king."
The prime minister had changed to formal dress, with a tapestried
turban and cloak, under which were skin-tight, pastel-striped pants. He
wore a necklace of enormous pearls and in the sash at his waist was a
gold-handled _katar _set with emeralds. He was barefoot. "This is an
ancient yearly custom of all the Great Moghuls.''
Hawksworth quickly unbuckled his shoes and tossed them by the edge of
the vast carpet, near the arcade.
"Seat yourself here next to me and I will explain everything to you.
His Majesty thinks the news of your trading fleet is extremely
auspicious, coming as it did on the first day of his birthday
celebration. He wants to return the honor by allowing you to join him
in the royal circle at the wedding of Prince Allaudin and Princess
Layla."
"That's very gracious of His Majesty. And when do you think he's
planning to sign the_ firman _approving English trade?"
"Your _firman _should be little more than a formality now, Ambassador.
He has already accepted in principle the terms you requested, but you
must realize he is quite preoccupied. I think you will have what you
want in a few more weeks. His Majesty has assumed a natural fondness
for you, but I still foresee various encumbrances from our friends in
Goa. Much depends on the fleet, and what happens if the Portuguese
intercept it."
Nadir Sharif moved closer and lowered his voice. "You
know, Ambassador, the appearance of your fleet bring nearer the time we
should work more closely together. Someday soon perhaps we can discuss
the price of English wool. I have five _jagirs _in northern Gujarat
that produce superb indigo. They are convenient to the port of Cambay,
just a few _kos _north of Surat. And, as it happens, I have a private
understanding with the Shahbandar of Cambay. It may be possible to make
arrangements that would help us both avoid some of the normal customs
duties. I suggest we explore it."
Hawksworth looked at him and smiled. I'll trade with you the day after
hell turns to ice, you unscrupulous son of a whore.
Kettledrums sounded at the back of the square and Hawksworth turned to
see Arangbar making his entry followed by Allaudin and a gray-bearded
_wazir_. The men around Hawksworth bounded to their feet as one,
performed the _teslim_, and then settled again on the carpets. On Nadir
Sharifs whispered urgings, Hawksworth also rose and bowed, without the
_teslim _. . . causing Nadir Sharif's eyes to flash momentary
disapproval as they both resumed their seats.
The Moghul was outfitted in the most magnificent attire Hawksworth had
ever seen. He seemed to be clothed in a fabric of jewels: diamonds,
rubies, pearls were woven into his cloak, and his sword handle appeared
to consist entirely of emeralds. His fingers were covered with jeweled
rings and chains from which dangled walnut-sized rubies. His chest was
covered with sparkling necklaces, and even his turban was bejeweled.
The crowd watched with anticipation as Arangbar strode directly to the
nearest platform of the balance and tested its cushions with a
sparkling hand. He waited with a broad smile while it was lowered to
the carpet, then without a word seated himself onto the cushions, in
the hunched squat all Indians performed. Allaudin and the _wazir _stood
on either side and steadied him as officials from the mint, all wearing
bright red turbans, approached bearing dark brown bags.
Bag after bag was piled onto the opposite platform, until Arangbar's
side slowly began to levitate off the carpet. When a perfect balance
had been achieved, his side was tipped gently back down by Allaudin and
the _wazir_, while the officials began to remove and count the bags on
the opposite platform. When the bags were counted, the weighing
commenced again, this time with bags of purple silk.
"The first weighing is in silver rupees," Nadir Sharif whispered
through the reverential silence. "Afterwards they are taken back to the
mint and distributed to the poor by His Majesty. Today is one of great
rejoicing in Agra."
"How much does he weigh?"
"His usual weight is about nine thousand silver rupees."
"That's over a thousand pounds in English sterling."
"Is that a large amount in your king's coinage, Ambassador?"
"It's a substantial sum of money."
"Over the following year, during the evenings, His Majesty will call
the poor of Agra to come before him and he will give them the money
with his own hand."
"How far will nine thousand rupees go to feed all the poor of Agra?"
"I don't understand your question, Ambassador?"
"Nothing. I . . . I was just wondering if perhaps King James should do
the same."
"It is an old Moghul tradition here." Nadir Sharif turned back to the
scales, where Arangbar was calling for the next weighing. "But watch.
Now he will be weighed against gold _mohurs_."
The pile of bags was mounting, and again Arangbar's platform slowly
began to rise into the air.
"There are twelve weighings in all. You will see. After the gold coins,
he is weighed against gold cloth that has been given to him on his
birthday by the women of the _zenana_. Then bags of jewels that were
contributed by the governors of India's provinces, carpets and brocades
from Agra nobles, and so forth. He is also weighed against silk, linen,
spices, and even ghee and grains, which are distributed later to the
Hindu merchant caste."
Arangbar continued to smile serenely as the weighing proceeded. During
the weighing of silk, he spotted Hawksworth and winked, raising a hand
to flash a diamond the size of a bullet. Hawksworth noted wryly that he
had not seen any of the wealth actually being distributed, that it was
all in fact returned directly to the palace.
When all the weighings were completed, Arangbar drew himself erect and
regally moved to a raised platform that had been constructed at the
back of the arcade. He then signaled for the massive balance to be
removed and in moments it had disappeared into the recesses of the
palace.
The crowd had begun to shuffle expectantly. As Hawksworth watched, he
suddenly realized why.
Large covered baskets were being brought before Arangbar, and when
their lids were removed, Hawksworth caught the glisten of silver.
Arangbar took the first basket and stood to his full height on the
dais. Then with a swing he flung the contents over the top of the
crowd. The air seemed to rain silver and the assembled nobles began
scrambling over the carpet retrieving the silver objects. Nadir Sharif
picked up one and handed it to Hawksworth.
It was a silver nutmeg, life-sized and topped with a tiny gold flower.
Hawksworth rolled it over . . . and it deflated to a thin piece of
foil.
Arangbar flung another basket and the turmoil intensified. Only
Hawksworth stood firm, as even Nadir Sharif could not resist scooping
up several of the foil replicas of nuts, fruits, and spices that
scattered on the carpet around them. The dignified assemblage had been
reduced to bedlam. Then the beaming Arangbar spotted Hawksworth and
called out.
"Ambassador Inglish. Is there nothing you would have?"
"May it please Your Majesty, an ambassador of the English king does not
scramble for toys."
"Then come forward and you'll not have to."
When Hawksworth reached the dais he bowed lightly, and as he drew
himself up, Arangbar seized the front of his doublet and dumped a
basket of gold foil flowers down the front of his shirt.
Before he could move, the nobles were there, pulling open his doublet
and scooping up the worked foil. In moments his doublet was plucked
clean. He looked about in disbelief, and saw that Arangbar was already
tossing more baskets to the turbaned crowd.
When the silver and gold were gone, Arangbar spoke quickly to the
eunuchs, and trays appeared with chalices of hard spirits. The
assembled nobles all toasted the Moghul's health and he joined in as
the drinking began. Musicians appeared, followed by food on plates of
silver worked in gold. Finally hookahs were set about the carpet,
together with more drinks, and a singer arrived to perform an afternoon
raga.
"This is an auspicious day for us both, Inglish." Arangbar beamed down
from his throne as he motioned Hawksworth forward. "The news just
reached me. Was this meant to be a surprise?"
"The English fleet is my king's birthday gift to Your Majesty."
"Nothing could gratify me more." Arangbar drank from a large cup of
wine. "We think it might be time we considered sending an ambassador of
our own to the court of your Inglish king. We just sent our first
ambassador to Goa."
"King James would be most honored, Your Majesty."
"Tell me, Ambassador Inglish. When will these ships reach the port at
Surat?"
"It depends on whether the Portugals want to honor the treaty between
Spain and England and allow our fleet to pass unchallenged. Sailing up
from the islands will mean tacking against the wind, but the fleet
could possibly make landfall within a month." Hawksworth paused. "Your
Majesty must realize this adds urgency to the matter of the trading
_firman_.''
"Within the week or so, Inglish. Within a week or so."
Hawksworth caught a slight elevation of Nadir Sharif's eyebrows.
"How long now do you intend to be staying with us, Inglish?" Arangbar
popped a ball of opium into his mouth . . . a bit too early in the day,
Hawksworth thought.
"Until you've signed the _firman _for trade, Your Majesty. I'll return
it to King James by the next shipping west."
"We would prefer that you stayed with us awhile longer, Inglish."
"No one regrets more than I that it's not possible, Your Majesty. But
my king awaits Your Majesty's pleasure regarding the terms of the
_firman_."
"We have conceived a new idea, Inglish. We will send the ito your king
by our own ambassador. Then you can remain here with us until your king
sends another ambassador to replace you." Arangbar laughed. "But he
must be a man who drinks as well as you, or we may send him back."
Hawksworth felt his stomach tighten. "Who can say when another
ambassador will be sent, Your Majesty? Should Your Majesty approve the
_firman_, my duties here will be _Resolve_d."
"But you must remain here to ensure we keep our word, Inglish."
Arangbar winked broadly. "Else our heart could grow fickle."
"I am honored, Your Majesty." Hawksworth shifted. "But my first duty is
to my king."
"We have been thinking perhaps you should have other duties . . ."
Arangbar's voice trailed off as he sipped on his wine and studied
Hawksworth. Then he looked up and his glance fell on the Portuguese
Jesuits lingering at the back of the courtyard. As he examined them, he
recalled the many long evenings when he had allowed the Jesuit Pinheiro
and his superior, Father Sarmento, to debate with him the merits of
Christianity. And again he found himself marveling how refreshingly
different the Englishman was.
Out of curiosity he had once inquired of the Jesuits how exactly a king
such as himself could become a Christian, and the very first thing they
had said was he must select only one of all his wives and dismiss the
rest.
He had tried to point out to them the absurdity of allowing a man only
one wife, without even the option to rid oneself of her once she grew
tiresome. And what, he had asked, was this king to do if his single
remaining wife suddenly became blind one day? Was he to keep her still?
Of course, they had replied, blindness in no way interferes with the
act of marriage. And what if she becomes a leper? Patience, they had
counseled, aided by God's grace, which renders all things easy. Such
patience, he had pointed out, might be customary for a Jesuit, who had
abstained from women all his life, but what about one who had not? And
they had replied that Christians also were sometimes known to sin, but
that the Grace of Christ provided the remedy of penitence, even for
those who transgressed against the law of chastity. He had listened
with mounting astonishment as they next proceeded to describe how
Jesuits scourged themselves to still the fires of the flesh.
At this last, he had realized that Christian doctrines were
incomprehensible and unworthy of further inquiry. From that time
forward he had never bothered to take the Jesuits seriously.
But this Englishman is different, he told himself. A real man, who'll
drink a cup of wine or eye a pretty woman with plenty of unchaste
thoughts on his sleeve.
"From this day forth you'll be serving us, Inglish, as well as your
king. We have decided to make you a _khan_."
Hawksworth stared at him uncomprehending. A murmur swept the crowd, but
quickly died away to stunned silence.
"A _khan_, Your Majesty?"
"_Khan_ is a title given to high-ranking officers in our service. It
carries with it great honor. And a salary. No _feringhi _has ever
before been made a _khan _by us. You will be the first." He laughed
broadly. "So now you must stay in India and drink with us. You are in
our hire."
"I'm flattered by Your Majesty's generosity." Hawksworth found himself
stunned--by the honor and also by the disquieting implications for his
planned return to England. "What are the duties of a _khan_?"
"First, Inglish, we must have a ceremony, to invest you properly."
Arangbar seemed to ignore the looks of disbelief on the faces around
him. "You will be given a personal honorary rank, called _zat_, of four
hundred. And a horse rank, called _suwar_, of fifty."
"Does it mean I have to maintain that many cavalry?" Hawksworth
blanched, realizing his money was already growing short.
"If you do, you will be the first _khan _in India who ever did. No,
Inglish, you will be provided salary for that number, but you need not
maintain more than twenty or thirty. We will personally select them for
you after the wedding."
Arangbar turned and motioned to Nadir Sharif. The prime minister came
forward and one of the eunuchs handed him a small box, of teakwood
worked in gold. He motioned for Hawksworth to kneel directly in front
of Arangbar. The nobles around them still could not disguise their
astonished looks.
Nadir Sharif moved directly above where Hawksworth was kneeling and
opened the box. "His Majesty, by this symbol, initiates you into
discipleship. It is bestowed only on the very few." He took out a small
gold medal, attached to a chain, and slipped the chain over
Hawksworth's head. Hawksworth noted that the medal had the likeness of
Arangbar imprinted on both sides. "Now you must prostrate yourself
before His Majesty."
"May it please His Majesty, the ambassador of a king must show his
gratitude after the custom of his own country," Hawksworth replied to
Nadir Sharif, then bowed lightly to Arangbar. "I humbly thank Your
Majesty in the name of King James."
Nadir Sharif's face darkened. "You must _teslim _to His Majesty."
"No, not the Inglish." Arangbar waved Nadir Sharif aside. "He must
follow his own custom. Now, give him the pearl."
Nadir Sharif took a large pearl from the box and stood before
Hawksworth.
"This you must wear in your left ear, where your gold earring is now."
Hawksworth examined the pearl. It was immense, and perfect.
"Again I thank Your Majesty." Hawksworth looked up to see Arangbar
beaming. "How shall I wear it?"
"My jeweler will fit it for you, Inglish."
A wry, portly man stepped forward and quickly removed the small gold
earring from Hawksworth's ear. Just as deftly, he attached the pearl
where it had been.
"And now, Inglish, I will bestow on you the highest favor of my court."
He turned and signaled another eunuch to come forward. The eunuch
carried a cloak woven with gold. "This cloak I have myself worn, then
kept aside to bestow on a worthy disciple. It is for you."
Arangbar took the cloak himself and laid it over Hawksworth's
shoulders.
"I thank Your Majesty. The honor is more than I could ever merit."
"That may well be true, Inglish." Arangbar roared. "But it's yours. You
speak my tongue and you drink almost as well. Few men here today can
equal you. And you have the wits of ten Portuguese. I think you deserve
to be one of my _khans_." Arangbar signaled for him to rise. "Your
salary will begin with the next lunar month. After that you will be
known in this court as the Inglish Khan. Day after tomorrow you will
ride with us in _shikar_, the royal hunt. You may soon decide you like
India better than England. Have you ever seen a tiger?"
"Never, Your Majesty."
"You will soon enough. Day after tomorrow. So you had best do your
drinking now, for tigers require a clear head." Arangbar laughed again
and clapped and the tension in the courtyard semed to evaporate. The
singer immediately began a second raga.
As Hawksworth fingered the earring, the medal, and the cloak, he found
himself remembering Huyghen's burning eyes that day in the London
alehouse. "You'll forget who you are," the old seaman had said. Could
this be what he meant?
But maybe it's not so bad after all, he told himself. It's like a dream
come true. And when the fleet makes landfall. . . .
. . . "Of course I've heard. It was my idea. Although His Majesty
naturally assumes he thought of it all by himself. Making the _feringhi
_a _khan _will confuse the Portuguese. And it will take everyone's mind
off the _firman _for a while." Queen Janahara had received Nadir Sharif
immediately after Arangbar retired to the _zenana_ for his afternoon
dalliance. The balcony of the Jasmine Tower was empty, the servants all
ordered back to the _zenana_. I'm more interested in the English fleet.
Do you know what has happened?"
"What do you mean, Majesty?" Nadir Sharif noted that he had not been
invited to sit.
"There was another message today, a private message from His
Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes." Janahara raised a silver, hourglass-
shaped cuspidor to her lips and delicately discharged red betel juice.
"Can you guess what he has dared to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Miguel Vaijantes is a man without courage. The understanding was very
clear."
"The understanding, Your Majesty?"
"We have kept our side of the agreement. There has been no _firman _for
the English _feringhi_. But now His Excellency has declared that he
must off-load the arms. He has begun assembling an armada to sail north
and intercept the English."
"The arms, Your Majesty?" Nadir Sharif moved closer. "Miguel Vaijantes
was shipping arms?"
"Surely you knew. My dear brother, has anything ever escaped your
rapacious eyes." She smiled, then spat again. "For Ahmadnagar. Small
arms and cannon."
"You were arming Malik Ambar? Against Jadar?" Nadir Sharif could not
strain the surprise from his voice.
"We were not arming him. The Portuguese were. Miguel Vaijantes was to
have armed a Maratha division on the western coast, off-loading at a
Portuguese port called Bom Bahia, on the coast west of Ahmadnagar. He
had his own reasons, but now it seems he has lost his nerve. I had no
idea how alarmed these Portuguese were by the English."
Nadir Sharifs mind was reeling. Say something, anything.
"If I may inject a word on His Excellency's behalf, Majesty, you must
understand that matters between the Portuguese and the English are
extremely delicate at the moment." Nadir Sharif's voice grew more
statesmanlike as he spoke. He scarcely heard his own words as his mind
plowed through the consequences of it all. And the treachery. "The
English could conceivably interrupt the entire trade of the Portuguese.
All the prince could ever possibly do would be to tighten restrictions
on our ports at Surat and Cambay. The Viceroy's decision is clearly
strategic, nothing more. I'm sure the regard he holds for Your Majesty
remains undiminished."
"That is a touching consolation." Janahara's voice was frigid, and she
seemed suddenly much older.
Footsteps sounded through the marble corridor and Allaudin appeared at
the doorway. He had changed to a foppish green turban, set off by an
effeminate necklace of rubies. His elaborate _katar _was secured by a
sash of gold- threaded brocade, and an emerald was set at the top of
each slipper. He wore heavy perfume.
"Your Majesty." He salaamed to Queen Janahara and then stood
attentively, somewhat sheepishly, until she gestured for him to sit.
"You're late."
"I was detained in my quarters, Majesty."
Janahara seemed completely preoccupied, unable even to look at the
prince. "The question now is what to do about the Englishman."
"What do you mean?" Allaudin did not trouble to mask his sneer. "It's
perfectly clear. His Majesty adores the _feringhi_. He'll surely sign
the _firman_ for English trade. Then there'll be a war on the seas.
It's really most exciting."
"The _firman_ is not yet signed." Janahara moved to the balcony and
studied the river below. Her walk was purposeful, yet still the
perfection of elegance. "Nor do I think it ever will be. His Majesty
will not have the time. The wedding will be moved forward. Before His
Highness, Prince Jadar, has the leisure to trouble us more."
Janahara turned and examined the two men, one her brother and one her
future son-in-law, finding herself astonished by their credulity.
Somehow, she told herself, the hand of Jadar lies behind all this. The
coincidence was just too great. First, he had succeeded in raising
troops from the southern _mansabdars_. And now the Deccanis could not
be armed. Could he possibly still forge a peace in the Deccan. Still,
after the wedding he would be isolated. Then what he did would no
longer matter. But if the _firman _were signed, there would no longer
be leverage with the Portuguese.
Janahara looked directly at Nadir Sharif. "If His Majesty signs the
_firman _before the wedding, you will be held responsible."
"I understand, Majesty." Nadir Sharif shifted. "When will the wedding
be?"
"I think it would be auspicious to hold it the week following the
birthday celebration. Which means the preparations must begin now."
"Hold the wedding immediately after the hunt? There's scarcely time."
"There will be time. For that and more." Janahara turned to Allaudin.
"And you would do well to start spending more time with a sword and
bow, and less with your pretty slave girls. I will know before long if
you are a match for Jadar. I pray to Allah I don't already suspect the
answer."
CHAPTER TWENTY
"There, on that hill, Inglish, is where I was born." Arangbar
pointed to the high sandstone walls of a distant hilltop fortress,
outlined against the midday sky. "It's called Fatehpur Sekri. It was a
great city during the time of my father Akman, but now it's abandoned.
It's romantic, but it's also forbidding. I've only been back once in my
life, and that was enough."
Hawksworth's elephant was half a length behind those of Arangbar and
Allaudin, even with that of Nadir Sharif. It was the second morning of
their ride, and they were nearing the locale of the royal hunt. It
seemed to him that half of Agra had traveled along. The queen and her
retinue were behind them, as were many of Arangbar's favorite women,
his guard, his eunuchs, the entire palace staff. The location of the
hunt was a two-day ride from Agra.
"What's there now?"
"It's abandoned, Inglish. Except for a few Sufi Muslims. They were
there before, and I guess they'll be there forever."
"What do you mean 'they were there before'? Before what?"
"Ah, Inglish. We had a very romantic birth. You seem to know nothing of
it. You see, my father, the Great Akman, had tried for many years to
have a son before I was born. Many hundreds of women, Inglish, but not
one could give him a son. Once twin boys were born to a Rajput princess
he had wived, but both died a few days later. Gradually he became
obsessed with fears of death, of dying without a lineage, and he began
calling holy men to the _Diwan-i-Khas _every evening to question them
about mortality. Once a Hindu holy man came who told Akman the greatest
duty of a king is to leave a male heir, who can carry his lineage
forward. The Great Akman was plunged into even greater sadness by this,
and he _Resolve_d to renounce everything until he could have a son.
"He walked all the way from Agra to that mountain, Inglish." Arangbar
pointed toward the fortress. "He came to see a holy Sufi living there,
among the rocks and wild beasts. It was a momentous meeting. Akman fell
at the feet of the holy man, and the Sufi held out his arms in welcome
to the Great Moghul of India. In later years many of Akman's artists
painted the scene. Akman told him that he had come to find the peace of
Allah. To find his own destiny. As a seeker after truth. The Sufi
offered this great warrior berries to eat, and gave him his own simple
hut for an abode. Akman stayed for many days, meditating with the Sufi,
and finally, when he made ready to leave, the Sufi told him he would
have three sons.
"And now," Arangbar grinned, "we reach the interesting part. When next
a wife announced she was with child, Akman moved her out here, to stay
in the same abode as the holy man. And, as the Sufi predicted, a male
child was born."
"And the child was . . ."
"You are riding beside him, Inglish. That is the story of my birth.
Akman was so elated that he decided to build an entire city here, and
move the capital from Agra. He built the city, but it was an obvious
act of excess. He never found time to live there, and soon it was
abandoned. So now the mountain is like it was before my birth, home to
wild birds and a few mad Sufis. The only difference is they have a
magnificent abandoned city to live in, instead of straw huts." He
laughed again. "Perhaps I owe my very life to a Sufi. Incidentally,
descendants of that holy man still live there."
"Are they all Sufis?"
"Who knows, Inglish? I think holy men from all over India can be found
there from time to time. It's become a kind of retreat."
"I'd like permission to visit it sometime, Majesty."
"Of course, Inglish. You'll find it's magnificent."
Hawksworth squinted against the sun and studied the distant red walls
of the city-fortress. Something about its remote purity beckoned him.
After the hunt, he told himself, when there's time. Right after the
hunt.
Arangbar fell silent, and Hawksworth leaned back in his _howdah _as it
rocked gently along. Elephants made better mounts than he had first
suspected. He thought again of the previous morning, and his first
reaction when told he would be riding an elephant for the next two
days. He had arrived at the Red Fort, to be greeted by Nadir Sharif,
who directed him to the royal elephants being readied in the courtyard
of the _Diwan-i-Am_.
"His Majesty has selected one of his favorites for you. Her name is
Kumada." Nadir Sharif had pointed toward a large female elephant, her
body dyed black and festooned with golden bells, yak-tail tassels, gold
tusk rings.
"What does the name mean?"
"The infidel Hindus believe the eight points of the earth are each
guarded by a heavenly being in the shape of an elephant. Your English
fleet is coming to us out of our ocean from the southwest, and Kumada
is the name Hindus give to the elephant who guards that point of the
Hindu compass. His Majesty believes this elephant will be auspicious
for you."
"I'm most grateful to His Majesty." Hawksworth surveyed the assembled
crowd in astonishment. Around him nobles wearing jeweled turbans and
silk trousers were selecting elephants. He had worn sea boots and a
leather jerkin.
Nadir Sharif signaled toward the mahout perched atop the neck of
Kumada, and the man tapped her flapping ear with a short barbed rod and
gave her directions in Hindi as he guided her toward Hawksworth. She
lumbered forward to where Hawksworth stood, and then her mountainous
flesh seemed to roll like a wave as she kneeled, front legs out, back
legs bent at the knee, ready to be mounted. Two keepers were there,
opening the gate of the gold-trimmed _howdah _and then kneeling, ready
to hoist the _feringhi_ aboard.
"Have you ever ridden an elephant before, Ambassador?" Nadir Sharif
monitored Hawksworth's apprehensive expression with delight.
"Never. I've never actually been this close to one before." Hawksworth
eyed the elephant warily, mistrusting her seeming docility.
Elizabethans circulated fabulous tales about this mountainous beast,
that it could pull down great trees with the power of its trunk, that
it had two hearts--one it used when calm, the other when incensed--and
that in Ethiopia there were dragons who killed elephants merely to
drink their blood, said to be ice cold at all times.
"You will find an elephant has more wit than most men. His Majesty
keeps a thousand in his stables here in the Red Fort. The Great Akman
used to trap them in the wild, using a female in heat, but then he
learned to induce tame ones to couple. Your elephant, I believe, is
second-ranked. She's a fine-tempered animal."
Kumada examined Hawksworth with her sad, dark eyes, and waved her
fanlike ears skeptically.
"I'm not entirely sure she's taken to me."
"Here, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif slipped a paper-wrapped stick of
sugarcane into Hawksworth's hand and nodded his head toward the
elephant.
Hawksworth gingerly approached her and began unwrapping the paper. No
sooner was the cane in view than Kumada nipped it deftly from his hand
with a flourish of her trunk. She popped the cane into her mouth and
flapped her ears with obvious pleasure as she cracked it with her
immense teeth. For a second Hawksworth thought he caught a flash of
appreciation in her eyes. He paused a moment, then walked close enough
to stroke the heavy skin at her neck.
"She'll not forget you now, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif was feeding his
own elephant. "It's said these animals have a memory longer than a
man's."
Hawksworth vaulted into the _howdah _and the entire world suddenly
seemed to shudder as her mahout signaled Kumada to rise. He seized the
railing surrounding him and gasped as she rumbled to her feet.
"You'll soon ride like a Rajput, Ambassador."
The elephant rocked into motion. It was worse than heavy weather at
sea.
"I think it may take practice."
"Women from the _zenana _ride elephants all the way to Kashmir in the
summer. I'm sure you'll manage a two-day hunt." Nadir Sharif swung
easily into his howdah. Around them other elephants were kneeling for
nobles to mount.
"Where will the hunt be?"
"This time we're going west, out toward the old city of Fatehpur Sekri.
But His Majesty has hunting preserves all over. In the neighborhood of
Agra and near the small town of Delhi north of here, along the course
of the Jamuna and reaching into the mountains, there is much
uncultivated land. There are many places with grasses over six feet
high and copse wood. This land is guarded with great care by the army,
and no person, high or low, is allowed to hunt there except for
partridge, quail, and hare--which are caught with nets. So the game--
nilgai, deer, antelope, _chitah_, tiger, even some lions--is plentiful.
Some of His Majesty's hunting preserves may extend as far as ten _kos
_in every direction--I believe that's around twenty of your miles."
"You said preparations for the hunt had been underway for days?"
"Of course. When His Majesty announces a _shikar_, a royal hunt, the
grand master of the hunt in that particular location has to begin
extensive preparations. The hunts now are usually a _qamargha_, which
was invented by Akman."
"What's that?"
"First, sentries are posted on all the roads leading into the preserve
to keep villagers out, and then the entire preserve is surrounded by
beaters, we call them _qarawals_, who begin to close the circle and
drive in the game. For this week's hunt he used thirty thousand
_qarawals_. The grand master of the hunt informs His Majesty when the
game has been brought together. The next day the court and officers
from the army leave early, to be at the appointed place to meet His
Majesty when he arrives. His Majesty usually hunts alone at first, if
there are no tigers, and everyone else must wait at a distance of about
one _kos_. Only some members of the Imperial army are allowed to
accompany him, for protection. After His Majesty wearies of the kill,
then others of his choosing are allowed to kill the last of the game.
But if tigers are to be hunted, it's customary that only His Majesty
and the royal family enter the circle. It's always been the tradition
of Moghul rulers that only they and their kinsmen are allowed to hunt
tigers. But this hunt will be different. This time His Majesty will
merely watch."
"Who'll do the killing then?"
"That my surprise you, Ambassador. Let me merely say that it is no man.
You will see."
Hawksworth was still wondering what he meant. But the time was not far
away when he would know. They were nearing the area that Nadir Sharif
had said was designated for the hunt.
"Inglish," Arangbar shouted back over his shoulder. "Does your king
hunt?"
"Rarely, Your Majesty. But he has no elephants."
"Perhaps we should send him some. But then I assume he has no tigers
either. Should we also send him some tigers to run free in Ingland so
he can hunt them?"
"I'll remember to ask His Majesty."
"But first you must see our tigers for yourself, Inglish. Today you and
Nadir Sharif will join us as we go into the _qur_, the hunting round.
Have your elephants fitted with leather armor."
Nadir Sharif started with surprise. "I thank Your Majesty for the
honor."
Allaudin stirred in his _howdah_, and Hawksworth caught the disdain in
his eyes. "Majesty, why are you inviting the _feringhi _into the
_qur_?"
"Her Majesty suggested it. And it amuses me." Arangbar seemed to
dismiss Allaudin's question. "He will not have a weapon. All he'll do
is watch."
As servants rushed forward to begin fitting the leather armor,
Hawksworth saw the queen's elephant approach. This was the closest he
had ever been to her, and still he could not see her. Her _howdah _was
completely enclosed with curtains, which now flapped lightly in the
midday breeze.
"Her Majesty, Queen Janahara, will be going into the hunting circle."
Nadir Sharifs voice was discreet as he spoke to Hawksworth. "She rarely
joins in _shikar_, but she is an excellent shot. This is a rare honor
for you, Ambassador."
Hawksworth studied the closed howdah and wondered why the "honor"
seemed to leave him with such an uneasy feeling.
The waiting nobles formed a line with their elephants as the Imperial
entourage moved past. Armed guards followed on horseback at a distance.
Leather padding had been fitted over the face and shanks of
Hawksworth's and Nadir Sharif's elephants, and they joined the end of
the procession.
Hawksworth held firmly to the side of the _howdah _as his elephant
rocked along, with only occasional instructions from her mahout. Now
they followed a winding road, which was surrounded on either side by
tall, brown grass. He warily studied every sway of the grass, imagining
tigers waiting to spring.
"Why don't we have guns?" He turned to Nadir Sharif, who rode
alongside, rocking placidly in his swaying howdah.
"There's no need, Ambassador. I told you the tiger will not be killed
with guns today. Of course, His Majesty and Prince Allaudin have guns,
but they're merely for protection, in case there's some minor
difficulty."
"Minor difficulty? What are _we _supposed to do if there's a 'minor
difficulty'?"
"The army will be there, men with half-pikes." He smiled easily.
"You're in no danger."
Ahead the woods seemed to open up, and the grass was shorter, perhaps
only as high as a man's waist. Deer darted wildly from side to side,
contained by high nets that had been erected around the sides of the
clearing. As they approached, Hawksworth saw a long line of several
hundred water buffalo waiting, heavy bovine animals with thick curved
horns dipping back against their heads, each fitted with a leather
saddle and reined by a rider on its back. The reins, which passed
through the buffalo's nostrils, were held in one hand by a mounted
soldier, whose other hand grasped a naked broadsword.
"Those men may well be the bravest soldiers in the army." Nadir Sharif
pointed to the riders, who were all saluting Arangbar's arrival.
"Theirs is a task I do not envy."
"What do they do?"
"You will see for yourself, Ambassador, in just a few moments."
From beyond the other side of the clearing, as though on an agreed
signal, came the sound of beaters. As the Imperial elephants drew near
the gray line of buffalo, their riders began to urge them ahead. The
buffalo snorted, knowing what waited in the grass, and then they
lumbered forward, tossing their heads in disquiet. The line of buffalo
was curved in the shape of a half-moon, and Arangbar urged his elephant
directly behind them. The grass ahead swarmed with frightened game, as
deer and antelope dashed against the nets and were thrown back, and
from the woods beyond, the clatter and shouts of the beaters increased.
Suddenly from out of the grass a tawny head appeared, with gold and
black stripes and heavy whiskers. The animal dashed for the side of the
enclosure, sprang for freedom, and was thrown back by the heavy net.
Hawksworth watched it speechless, unprepared for the size and ferocity
of an Indian tiger. It was enormous, with powerful haunches and a long
striped tail. The tiger flipped to its feet and turned to face the line
of buffalo with an angry growl.
Arangbar clapped his hands with delight and shouted in Urdu to the line
of riders, all--Hawksworth now realized-- Rajputs. The buffalo snorted
and tried to turn back, but their riders whipped them forward. The
tiger assumed a crouching stalk along the gray, horned wall, eyeing a
large dark buffalo with a bearded rider. Then it sprang.
The buffalo's head went down, and when it came up a heavy curved horn
had pierced the tiger's neck. There was a snort and a savage toss of
the head that flung the wounded tiger upward. As it whirled in the air,
Hawksworth saw a deep gash across its throat. The Rajput riders nearby
slipped to the ground and formed a wall of swords between Arangbar and
the tiger as the line of buffalo closed in, bellowing for the kill. In
what seemed only moments the tiger was horned and pawed to a lifeless
pulp.
"Superb!" Arangbar shouted something to the enclosed _howdah _that
Hawksworth did not understand. "A hundred gold _mohurs_ to every man on
the line."
The Rajputs remounted their buffalo, retrieving the reins from the
bloody grass, and the line again moved forward.
"This is a variation on His Majesty's usual tiger hunt," Nadir Sharif
shouted through the dust, above the din of bellowing buffalo and
trumpeting elephants. "Often he shoots, but today His Majesty elected
merely to watch. Actually, animal fights have long been a favorite
pastime in India."
At that moment a pair of tigers emerged from the grass and stared at
the approaching line of buffalo. They did not seem frightened, as had
the first, and they watched the line coolly, as though selecting a
strategy. Then they dropped into a crouching stalk, moving directly
toward the center of the line.
Hawksworth noticed Arangbar suddenly order his mahout to hold back his
elephant. The other Imperial elephants had also paused to wait. Then
Arangbar turned and ordered the servant who rode behind him to pass
forward a long-barreled, large-caliber sporting piece. Allaudin, whose
fright was transparent, also signaled for a gun.
Hawksworth's mahout pulled his elephant directly behind Arangbar's, as
though for protection.
The tigers seemed in no hurry to engage the buffalo. They scrutinized
the approaching line and waited for their moment. Then, when the
buffalo were no more than ten feet away, both sprang simultaneously.
The female was speared on the horn of a buffalo, but she flipped in
midair and sank her teeth into the leather shielding on its neck. As
its Rajput rider slipped to the ground, the male of the pair dashed
past his mate and sprang for him. The Rajput swung his broadsword,
catching the tiger in the flank, but it swatted him aside with a
powerful sweep of its paw and he crumpled, his neck shattered. Other
Rajputs rushed the male tiger with their swords, as their buffalo
closed in to kill the female, but it eluded their thrusts as it circled
Arangbar's elephant. Soldiers with half-pikes had already rushed to
form a barricade between Arangbar's elephant and the tiger, but the
Moghul seemed unperturbed. While the panting male tiger stalked
Arangbar, the female tiger was forgotten.
As Hawksworth watched spellbound, his pulse pounding, he caught a
yellow flicker out of the corner of his eye and turned to see the
female tiger slip past the ring of buffalo and dash toward the rear of
Arangbar's elephant. It was on the opposite side from the armed
soldiers, where the Moghul's elephant was undefended.
Hawksworth opened his mouth to shout just as the female tiger sprang
for Arangbar, but at that moment a shot rang out from the enclosed
howdah of Queen Janahara and the female tiger crumpled in midair,
curving into a lifeless ball as it smashed against the side of the
Moghul's mount.
The jolt caused Arangbar's shot at the male tiger to go wide, merely
grazing its foreleg. A dozen half-pikes pierced its side as it stumbled
forward, and it whirled to slap at the Rajputs. Allaudin also fired his
tiger gun, but his shot missed entirely, almost hitting one of the men
trying to hold the tiger back. It whirled in a bloody circle for a
moment, and then stopped.
It was staring at Hawksworth.
He heard his mahout shout in terror as the tiger sprang for the head of
their elephant. A wrap of yellow fur seemed to twist itself around the
elephant's forehead as the tiger dug its claws into the protective
leather padding. As Kumada tossed her head in panic, the mahout
screamed again and plunged for safety, rolling through a clump of brown
grass and scrambling toward the soldiers.
The tiger caught Hawksworth's eyes with a hypnotic gaze as it began
pulling itself over the forehead of the terrified elephant, directly
toward his howdah. Kumada had begun to whirl in a circle and shake her
head, futilely trying to dislodge the wounded fury slashing at her
leather armor. The tiger slipped momentarily, then caught its claws
more firmly and began to climb again.
Almost without thinking, Hawksworth reached forward and grabbed the
_ankus_, the short pike and claw used for guiding an elephant, that the
mahout had left lodged in a leather fold behind the elephant's head. He
wrenched it free and began to tease the tiger back.
Kumada was running now, wildly it seemed, toward a large _pipal _tree
at the edge of the clearing. But the tiger had pulled itself atop her
head and, as Hawksworth jabbed its whiskered face with the _ankus_, he
heard a deep growl and saw a flash of yellow and claw as a sharp pain
cut through his shoulder.
He knew he was falling, dizzily, hands grasping against smooth leather
as he slipped past the neck of the elephant, past its flapping ear,
against a thundering foot that slammed the dust next to his face.
Kumada had suddenly stopped dead still, throwing him sprawling against
the base of the _pipal _tree. He looked up to see the tiger suspended
above him, glaring down, clawing at the face of the elephant and
bellowing with pain.
Then he heard the snap of the tiger's spine, as Kumada slammed it again
and again against the massive trunk of the
tree, Only when the tiger was motionless did she let it drop, carefully
tossing its body away from Hawksworth as it tumbled lifeless onto the
grass.
Hawksworth looked up through the dust to see Arangbar pulling his
elephant alongside.
"That was most auspicious, Inglish. It's an ominous and evil protent
for the state if a tiger I have shot escapes the hunt. If that beast
had succeeded in going free, we would have had to send the entire army
into the countryside to find and kill it. Your Kumada saved me the
trouble. The gods of the southwest have been auspicious for our reign
today. I think you brought us luck."
"I thank Your Majesty." Hawksworth found himself gasping for breath.
"No, it is you we must thank. You were quick-witted enough to keep the
tiger where Kumada could crush it." Arangbar called for his own
elephant to kneel, and he walked briskly to Kumada, who was still
quivering from fright. He stroked her face beneath the eye and she
gentled perceptibly. It was obvious she loved Arangbar. "She's
magnificent. Only once before have I ever seen an elephant do that. I
hereby promote her immediately to First Rank, even though a female." He
turned to Nadir Sharif. "Have it recorded."
As Hawksworth tried to rise, he felt a bolt of pain through the
shoulder where the tiger had slapped him. He looked to see his leather
jerkin shredded. Arangbar seemed to notice it too and he turned and
motioned to Nadir Sharif, who signaled to another man, who called yet
another. Moments later a physician was bending over Hawksworth. He
probed the skin for a painful moment and then slammed a knee against
Hawksworth's side, giving the pained arm a quick twist.
Hawksworth heard himself cry out from the pain and for a moment he
thought he might lose consciousness. But then his mind began to clear
and he realized he could move the arm again. The pain was already
starting to abate.
"I suggest the shoulder be treated with compresses for a few days,
Majesty." Nadir Sharif had dismounted from his elephant and was there,
attentive as always.
"Then he must be sent back to Agra."
"Of course, Majesty." Nadir Sharif stepped closer to Arangbar. "But
perhaps it would be equally wise to let the _feringhi _rest somewhere
near here. Perhaps at the old city." He turned and pointed toward the
west. "There at Fatehpur. I think there may still be a few Sufi hermits
there who could attend the shoulder until _shikar _is over. Then he
could return with us."
Arangbar turned and shaded his eyes as he stared at the horizon. Above
the tree line could be seen the gate of the fortress at Fatehpur Sekri.
"But my shoulder is fine now." Hawksworth tried to move into the circle
of conversation. "There's no need . . ."
"Very reasonable." Arangbar seemed to ignore Hawksworth as he turned
back to Nadir Sharif. "You can escort the Inglish to the fortress. Call
up a palanquin for him. Leave your elephant here and take a horse."
As the physician bound Hawksworth's arm in readiness, a palanquin was
brought from among the women's elephants. "A contingent of Rajputs can
go with him." Arangbar shouted instructions to the captain of his guard
and watched the men fall into formation. Then he remounted his elephant
and signaled for the buffalo to resume their sweep of the tall grass.
As the party started forward, Hawksworth saw Nadir Sharif shout orders
to one of the servants attending him. And as four Rajputs lifted
Hawksworth's palanquin off the ground, a servant rushed forward to
shove a flask inside.
It was brandy. Hawksworth turned to see Nadir Sharif grinning, a gleam
in his eye.
She watched the palanquin ease up the weathered, winding path leading
to the fortress gate. The procession had moved slowly through the gate
at the northeast corner of the city's walls and now the Rajputs were
clustered around the palanquin and the lone rider. The night was still,
awash in a wild desert fragrance, and the moon was curing slowly from
white to a rarified gold. Her vantage, in a corner turret of the wall,
was shadow-less and perfect. She examined the rider and smiled when she
recognized the face.
Nadir Sharif. You have kept your part of the bargain. All of it.
As she studied him through the half light, she wondered why they were
coming a day earlier than planned. Then the palanquin stopped and the
other figure emerged. She hesitated before looking, at last forcing
herself, willing her eyes to see.
After a long moment she turned to the tall man standing next to her.
His beard was white, as were his robes. His eyes saw what she saw, but
he did not smile. He turned to her and nodded wordlessly. Then he
tightened his white robe and moved easily down the stone staircase
toward the courtyard below.
Hawksworth had sensed the autumn light begin to fall rapidly as they
approached the gates of the fortress-city. Already there was a pale
moon, promising fullness. In size and grandeur the portals of the gate
reminded Hawksworth of the Red Fort in Agra, only the walls themselves
were considerably less formidable. The palace itself sat atop a wooded
hill, and already the stones of the abandoned roadway leading up the
hill were becoming overgrown. There was a small village at the bottom
of the hill, where smoke from evening cooking fires had begun to rise,
but from the fortress itself there was no smoke, no hint of life or
habitation.
He alighted from the palanquin at the bottom of a steep stairway
leading to the palace gate and together with Nadir Sharif passed slowly
up the abandoned steps. The Rajputs trailed behind them as they reached
the top and passed under the shadow of a tulip-curved arch that framed
the gateway. The dark surrounded them like an envelope, and the Rajput
guards pushed forward, toward the black outline of two massive wooden
doors at the back of the recess. They pushed open the doors, and before
them lay a vast open courtyard, empty in the moonlight.
"Is this place completely abandoned? I still don't understand why I'm
here."
Nadir Sharif smiled. "On the contrary, Ambassador. It's far from
abandoned. But it appears so, does it not?"
Then Hawksworth saw a figure approaching them, gliding noiselessly
across the red sandstone pavement of the court. The figure carried an
oil lamp, which illuminated a bearded face framed in a white shawl.
"You are welcome in the name of Allah." The figure bowed a greeting.
"What brings armed men to our door? It is too late now to pray. We long
ago sounded the last _azan_."
"His Majesty has sent a _feringhi _here, to be cared for by you for two
days." Nadir Sharif stepped forward. "He was injured today during
_shikar_."
"Our hands are always open." The figure turned and moved across the
plaza toward a building that looked, in the new moonlight, to be a
mosque. When they reached the entrance, the man turned and spoke to the
Rajputs in a language Hawksworth did not understand.
"He says this is the house of God," Nadir Sharif translated. "He has
commanded the Rajputs to leave their shoes and their weapons here if
they wish to follow. I think they will refuse. Perhaps it would be best
if we all left you now. You'll be well cared for. Day after tomorrow
I'll send a horse for you."
"What's going on? You mean I'm going to be here alone?" Hawksworth
suddenly realized he was being abandoned, at an abandoned city. He
whirled on Nadir Sharif. "You suggested this. You brought me here. What
the hell is this for? I could have returned to Agra, or even stayed
with the hunt."
"You're a perceptive man, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif smiled and looked
up at the moon. "But as far as I know, you're here entirely by
coincidence. I cannot be responsible for anything that happens to you,
or anyone you see. This is merely the hand of chance. Please try to
understand."
"What do you mean?"
"I will see you in two days, Ambassador. Enjoy your rest."
Nadir Sharif bowed, and in moments he and the Rajputs had melted into
the moonlight.
Hawksworth watched them leave with a mounting sense of disquiet. Then
he turned and peered past the hooded figure, who stood waiting. The
mosque looked empty, a cavern of flickering shadows against intricate
plaster calligraphy. He unbuckled the sheath of his sword and passed it
to the man as he kicked away his loose slippers. The man took the sword
without a word, examined it for a moment as though evaluating its
workmanship, then turned to lead the way.
They moved silently across the polished stone floor, past enormous
columns that disappeared into the darkness of the vaulted space above
them. Hawksworth relished the coolness of the stones against his bare
feet, then ducked barely in time to avoid a hanging lamp, extinguished
now, its polished metalwork almost invisible against the gloom.
Ahead a lamp flickered through the dark. They passed beneath it, then
stopped at a closed door at the rear of the mosque. The man spoke a
word Hawksworth did not understand and the door was swung open from the
inside, revealing an illuminated passageway.
Four men were waiting. As Hawksworth and his guide passed through, the
door closed behind them and the men silently drew around.
The passageway was long, freshly plastered, and floored in marble
mosaic. It was cool, as though immune from the heat of the day, and
scented faintly with rose incense that had been blended with the oil in
the hanging lamps.
At the end of the corridor was another stairway, again of white marble,
and as they moved up its steps the man who had greeted Hawksworth
extinguished his lamp with a brass cup he carried.
Beyond the stair was another corridor, then another door that opened as
they approached. Hawksworth realized they were in an upper story of a
large building directly behind the mosque. They passed through the door
and emerged into a room facing a balcony that overlooked the abandoned
square below.
In the center of the room was a raised dais, covered with a thick
Persian carpet. The man who had been Hawksworth's guide moved to the
dais, mounted it, and seated himself. With a flourish he dropped his
white hood and the wrap that had been around him. Hawksworth realized
with a shock that his long white hair streamed to his waist. He was
naked save for a loincloth. He gestured for Hawksworth to sit,
indicating a bolster.
"Welcome, English." He waited until the surprise had registered in
Hawksworth's face. "We've been expecting you, but not quite so soon."
"Who are you?"
"I was once a Persian." He smiled. "But I've almost forgotten my
country's manners. First I should offer you some refreshment, and only
then turn to affairs. Normally I would offer _sharbat_, but I
understand you prefer wine?"
Hawksworth stared at him speechless. No pious Muslim would drink wine.
That much he knew.
"Don't look so surprised. We Persian poets often drink wine . . .
for divine inspiration." He laughed broadly. "At least that's our
excuse. Perhaps Allah will forgive us. 'A garden of flowers, a cup of
wine, Mark the repose of a joyous mind.'"
He signaled one of the men, and a chalice of wine appeared, seemingly
from nowhere. "I once learned a Latin expression,'in vino Veritas." As
a Christian you must know it. 'In wine there is truth.' Have some wine
and we will search for truth together."
"Let's start with some truth from you. How do you know so much about
me? And you still haven't told me who you are."
"Who am I? You know, that's the most important question you can ask any
man. Let us say I am one who has forsworn everything the world would
have . . . and thereby found the one thing most others have lost." He
smiled easily. "Can you guess what that is?"
"Tell me."
"My own freedom. To make verse, to drink wine, to love. I have nothing
now that can be taken away, so I live without fear. I am a Muslim
reviled by the mullahs, a poet denounced by the Moghul's court
versifiers, a teacher rejected by those who no longer care to learn. I
live here because there is no other place I can be. Perhaps I soon will
be gone, but right here, right now, I am free. Because I bear nothing
but love for those who would harm me." He stared out over the balcony
for a moment in silence. "Show me the man who lives in fear of death,
and I will show you one already dead in his soul. Show me the man who
knows hate, and I will show you one who can never truly know love." He
paused again and once more the room grew heavy with silence. "Love,
English, love is the sweetness of desert honey. It is life itself. But
you, I think, have yet to know its taste. Because you are a slave to
your own striving. But until you give all else over, as I have done,
you can never truly know love."
"How do you think you know so much about me? I know nothing about you.
Or about why I'm here."
"But I think you've heard of me."
Hawksworth stared at him for a moment, and suddenly everything came
together. He could have shouted his realization.
"You're Samad. The Sufi. . . ." He stopped, his heart racing. "Where is
. . .?"
"Yes, I'm a poet, and I'm called a Sufi because there is nothing else
to call me."
"You're not really a Sufi?"
"Who knows what a Sufi is, my English friend? Not even a Sufi knows.
Sufis do not teach beliefs. They merely ask that you know who you are."
"I thought they're supposed to be mystics, like some of the Spanish
Catholics."
"Mystics yearn to merge with God. To find that part within us all that
is God. Sufis teach methods for clearing away the clutter that obscures
our knowledge of who we are So perhaps we're mystics. But we're not
beloved by the mullahs."
"Why not? Sufis are Muslims."
"Because Sufis ignore them. The mullahs say we must guide our lives by
the Laws of the Prophet, but Sufis know God can only be reached through
love. A pure life counts for nothing if the heart is impure. Prayers
five times a day are empty words if there is no love." Samad paused
again, and then spoke slowly and quietly. "I am trying to decide if
then is love about you, English."
"You seem to think you know a lot about me. There's only one person who
wanted me to meet you. And she was in Surat. Where is she now? Is she
here?"
"She's no longer in Surat. Be sure of that. But at this moment you are
here with me. Why always seek after what you do not have? You see, I do
know much about you. You're a pilgrim." He waved his hand absently.
"But then we all are pilgrims. All searching for something. We call it
different names--fulfillment, knowledge, beauty, God. But you still have
not found what you seek, is that not true?' Samad watched Hawksworth in
silence as he drank from his own wineglass. "Yes, it is given many
names, but it is in fact only one thing. We are all searching, my
English, for our own self. But the self is not easy to find, so we
travel afar, hoping it lies elsewhere. Searching inward in a much more
difficult journey."
Hawksworth started to speak, but Samad silenced him with a wave of the
hand. "Know that you will find the thing you most want only when you
cease to search. Only then can you listen to the quiet of the heart,
only then can you find true content." Samad drank again from his wine.
"This last week you have found, so you think, your fortune. You have
received worldly honors from the Moghul, you have news of imminent
success for your English king. But these things will only bring you
despair in the end."
"I don't understand what you mean."
Samad laughed and finished off his glass. "Then let me tell
you a story about myself, English. I was born a Persian Jew, a merchant
at my birth by historic family vocation. But my people have ignored the
greatest Prophet of all, the Prophet Mohammed. His voice invites all,
and I heard that voice. I became Muslim, but still I was a merchant. A
Persian merchant. And, perhaps not unlike you, I traveled to India
search of . . . not the greater Prophet, but the baser profit. And
here, my English, I found the other thing I searched for. I found
love. Pure love, consuming love. The kind of love few men are
privileged to know. The love of a boy whose beauty and purity could
only have come from God. But this love was mistaken by the world, was
called impure, and he was hidden from me. So the only one left for me
to love was God. Thus I cast away my garments, my worldliness, and gave
myself to Him. And once more I was misunderstood."
Samad paused and called for another glass of wine. Then he turned back
to Hawksworth. "So I have told the world my story in verse. And now
there are many who understand. Not the mullahs, but the people. I have
given them words that could only come from a pure heart, words of joy
that all men can share." Samad stopped and smiled. "You know we
Persians are born poets. It's said we changed Sufism from mystic
speculation to mystic art. All I know is the great poets of Persia
found in Sufism a vehicle for their art that gave back to Islam almost
more than it took. But then a poet's vocation must always be to give. I
have given the people of India my heart, and they have loved me in
return. Yet such love engenders envy in the minds of men who know it
not. The Shi'ite mullahs would have condemned me for heresy long ago
were it not for one man, a man who has understood and protected me. The
only man in India who is not afraid of he Persian Shi'ites at court.
And now he too is gone. With him went my life."
"And who was that?"
"Can you not guess? You have already met him." Samad smiled. "Prince
Jadar."
Hawksworth suddenly felt as though the world had closed about him.
"Why did you contrive to get me here tonight?"
"Because I wished to see you. And I can no longer walk abroad. It has
been forbidden on pain of death. But death is something I am almost
ready to welcome. One day soon I will walk the streets of Agra once
more, for the last time.
Hawksworth wondered if the claim was bravado, or truth.
"But why did you want to see me?" Hawksworth studied Samad closely.
Suddenly he decided to ask the question directly. "To ask me to help
Jadar? You can tell him for me that I want no part of his politics. I'm
here to get a trade agreement, a _firman_. That's my mission, why I was
sent.
Samad settled his wineglass on the carpet with a sigh of resignation.
"You've heard nothing I have said. I am telling you it would be best
for you to forget about your 'mission.' Your destiny is no longer in
your hands. But if you will open your heart, you will find it has
riches to compensate you manyfold. Still, they can be yours only if you
can know love. But now, I fear, the only love you know is self-love,
ambition. You have not yet understood it is empty as mirror.
_"The world is but a waking dream,
The eye of heart sees clear.
The garden of this tempting world,
Is wrought of sand and tear."
_
Hawksworth shifted and stared about the room. It was darker now but
several men had entered. Few of them seemed to understand Samad's
Turki.
"So what do I do now?"
"Stay with us for a while. Learn to know yourself." Samad rose and
stepped off the dais. "Perhaps then you will at last find what you
want."
He motioned for Hawksworth to walk with him to the balcony. Across the
courtyard a single lamp burned in the turret of one of the buildings.
"Tonight must be remembered as a dream, my English. And like a dream,
it is to be recalled on waking as mere light and shadow." He turned and
led Hawksworth to the door. The men stood aside for them. "And now I
bid you farewell. Others will attend you."
Hawksworth walked into the marble corridor. Standing in the half-light,
her face warm in the glow of a lamp, was . . .
Shirin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The night sky above the courtyard was afire, an overturned
jewel box strewn about an ivory moon. They passed through a gateway of
carved columns and ornate brackets, into a smaller plaza. The mosque
was left behind: around them low were empty pavilions, several stories
high, decorated with whimsical carvings, railings, cornices. Now they
were alone in the abandoned palace, surrounded by silence and
moonlight. Only then did she speak, her voice opening through the
stillness.
"I promised to think of you, and I have, more than you can know.
Tonight I want to share this with you. The private palace of the Great
Akman. The most beautiful place in all India." She paused and pointed
to a wide marble pond in the middle of the plaza. In its center was a
platform, surrounded by a railing and joined to the banks by delicate
bridges. "They say when Akman's court musician, the revered Tansen, sat
there and sang a raga for the rainy season, the clouds themselves would
come to listen, and bless the earth with their tears. Once all this was
covered by one magnificent canopy. Tonight we have only the stars."
"How did you arrange this?" He still was lost in astonishment.
"Don't ask me to tell you now. Can we just share this moment?"
She took his arm and motioned ahead. There, glistening in the
moonlight, were the open arcades of a palace pavilion. I've prepared
something especially for us." She guided him through a wide-open
archway and into a large arcade, illuminated by a single oil lamp atop
a stone table. In front of them, on the walls, were brilliantly colored
renderings of elephants, horses, birds. She picked up the lamp and led
him past the paintings and into the next room, a vast red chamber whose
floor was a fragrant standing pool of water. In the flickering light he
could see a marble stairway leading to a red sandstone platform
projecting out over the water, supported by square stone columns topped
by ornate brackets.
"This is where Akman spent the hot summer nights. Up there, on the
platform, above a cooling pool of rosewater. From there he would summon
his women to come to him from the _zenana_."
Hawksworth dipped his fingers into the water and brought it to his
lips. It was like perfume. He turned to he and she smiled.
"Yes, the Sufis still keep rosewater here, in memory of Akman." She
urged him forward, up the stairs. "Come and together we'll try to
imagine how it must have felt to be the Great Moghul of India."
As they emerged onto the platform, the vaulted ceiling above them
glowed a ruby red from the lamp. Under their feet was a thick carpet,
strewn with small velvet bolsters. At the farthest edge was a large
sleeping couch, fashioned from red marble, its dark velvet canopy held
aloft by four finely worked stone columns. The covering of the couch
was a patterned blue velvet, bordered in gold lace.
"Just for tonight I've made this room like it was when Akman slept
here, with his chosen from the _zenana_." She slipped the gauze wrap
from her shoulders. He looked at her dark hair, secured with a
transparent scarf and a strand of pearls, and realized it contrasted
perfectly with the green emerald brooch that swung gently against her
forehead. She wore a necklace of pearl strands and about each upper arm
was a band ringed with pearl drops. Her eyes and eyebrows were painted
dark with kohl and her lips were a brilliant red
Without a word she took a garland of yellow flowers from the bed and
gently slipped it over his head. Next to the couch was a round rosewood
table holding several small brass vials of perfume and incense.
"Tonight this room is like a bridal chamber. For us."
A second garland of flowers lay on the bed next to the one she had
taken. Without thinking, he reached and took it and slipped it around
her neck. Then he drew his fingertips slowly down her arm, sending a
small shiver through them both. Seeing her in the lamplight, he
realized again how he had ached for her.
"A wedding? For us?"
"Not a wedding. Can we just call it a new beginning? The end of one
journey and the beginning of another."
Hawksworth heard a sudden rustling behind him and then a sound. He
turned and searched the gloom, where two eyes peered out of the
darkness, reflecting the lamplight. He was reaching for his pistol when
she stopped his arm.
"That's one of the little green parrots who live here. They've never
been harmed, and they've never been caged. So they're unafraid." She
turned and called to it. "If they're caught and imprisoned, their
spirit dies and their beauty starts to fade."
The bird ruffled its wings again and flew to the top of the bolster
beside Shirin. Hawksworth watched her for a moment, still incredulous,
then settled himself on the carpet next to a chalice of wine that sat
waiting. She reached and touched his arm. "I never asked you what your
lovers call you. You're so important, nobody in India knows your first
name, just your titles."
"My only other name is Brian." He found her touch had already begun to
stir him.
"Brian. Will you tell me everything about you, what you like and what
you don't?" She began to pour the wine for them. "Did I ever tell you
what I like most about you?"
"In Surat you said you liked the fact I was a European. Who always had
to be master of worldly things."
"Well, I've thought about you a lot since then." Her expression grew
pensive. "I've decided it's not so simple. There's a directness about
you, and an openness, an honesty, that's very appealing."
"That's European. We're not very good at intrigue. What we're thinking
always shows on our face."
She laughed. "And I think I know what you're thinking right now. But
let me finish. I feel I must tell you this. There's something else
about you that may also be European, but think it's just your special
quality. You're always ready to watch and learn from what you see.
Looking for new things and new ideas. Is that also European?"
"I think it probably is."
"It's rare here. Most Indians think everything they have and everything
they do is absolutely perfect, exactly the way it is. They might take
something foreign and use it, or copy it but they always have to appear
disdainful of anything not Indian."
"You're right. I'm always being told everything here is better." He
reached for her. "Sometimes it's even true."
"Won't you let me tell you the rest?" She took his hand and held it. "I
also think you have more concern for those around you than most Indians
do. You respect the dignity of others, regardless of their station,
something you'll seldom see here, particularly among the high castes.
And there's a kindness about you too. I feel it when you're with me."
She laughed again. "You know, it's a tragic thing about Muslim men.
They claim to honor women; they write poems to their beauty; but I
don't think they could ever truly love a woman. They believe she's a
willful thing whom it's their duty to contain."
She paused, then continued. "But you're so very different. It's hard to
comprehend you sometimes. You love your European music, but now I think
you're starting to understand and love the music of India. I even heard
you're learning the sitar. You're sensitive to all beauty, almost the
way Samad is. It makes me feel very comfortable with you. But you're
also a lot like Prince Jadar. You're not afraid of risks. You guide
your own destiny. Instead of just accepting whatever happens, the way
most Indians do." She smiled and traced her fingers down his chest.
"That part makes you very exciting."
She hesitated again. "And do you know what I like least about you? It's
the _feringhi _clothes you wear."
He burst into laughter. "Tell me why."
"They're so . . . undignified. When I first saw you, that night you
came to Mukarrab Khan's palace, I couldn't believe you could be anyone
of importance. Then the next morning, at the observatory, you looked
like a nobleman. Tonight, you're dressed like a _feringhi _again."
"I like boots and a leather jerkin. When I'm wearing a fancy doublet
and hose, then I feel I have to be false, false as the clothes. And
when I dress like a Moghul, I always wonder if people think I'm trying
to be something I'm not."
"All right." She smiled resignedly. "But perhaps sometime tonight
you'll at least take off your leather jerkin. I would enjoy seeing
you."
He looked at her in wonderment. "I still don't understand you at all.
You once said you thought I was powerful. But you seem to be pretty
powerful yourself. Nobody I know could force Mukarrab Khan or Nadir
Sharif to do anything. Yet you made the governor divorce you, and then
you made the prime minister deceive half of Agra to arrange this.
You're so many different things."
"Don't forget. Sometimes I'm also a woman."
She rose and began to slowly draw out the long cinch holding the waist
of her wrap. Her halter seemed to trouble her as she tried to loosen
it. She laughed at her own awkwardness, and then it too came away. She
was left with only her jewels and the long scarf over her hair, which
she did not remove. Then she turned to him.
"Do you still remember our last night in Surat?"
"Do you?" He looked at her in the dim lamplight. The line of her body
was flawless, with gently rounded breasts, perfect thighs, legs lithe
yet strong.
"I remember what I felt when I kissed you."
He laughed and moved to take her in his arms. "But I thought I was the
one who kissed you."
"Maybe we should try it once more and decide." With a mischievous look
she caught his arms and wrapped herself around him. As he touched her
lips, she turned abruptly and the world suddenly seemed to twist
crazily around them, sending his head spinning. In shock he opened his
mouth to speak and it was flooded with the essence of rose.
The pool beneath the platform had broken their fall. He came up gasping
and found her lips.
She tasted of another world. Sweet, fragrant. He enclosed her slowly in
his arms, clasping her lean body gently at first; then feeling more and
more of her warmth he pressed her to him, both of them still gasping.
They seemed to float, weightless, serene in the darkness. Awkwardly he
began pulling away his wet jerkin.
"You're just as I imagined." Her hands traveled across his chest,
lightly caressing his skin, while the lamp flickered against the
paintings on the walls above them. "There's a strength about you, a
roughness." She nuzzled his chest with her face. "Tonight will you let
me be your poet?"
"Tonight you can be anything you want."
"I want to sing of you--a man I adore--of the desire I feel for you.
After we know each other fully, the great longing will be gone. The
most intense moment we can ever share will be past. The ache of
wanting."
"What you just said reminds me of something John Donne once wrote."
"Who is he?"
"One of our English poets and songwriters. But he had a slightly
different idea." He hesitated, then smiled. "To tell the truth, I think
I may like his better."
She lifted herself up in the water, rose petals patterned across her
body. "Then tell me what he said."
"It's the only poem of his I can still remember, but only the first
verse. For some reason I'll never forget it. I sometimes think of it
when I think of you. Let me say it in English first and then try to
translate.
_"I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then?
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee."
_
She listened to the hard English rhythm and then to his translation,
awkward and halting. Then she was silent for a moment, floating her
hand across the surface of the pond.
"You know, I also wonder now what I did before I met you. Before I held
you."
She slipped her hands about his neck, and as she did he drew her up out
of the water and cradled her against him. Then he lifted her, her body
still strewn with rose petals, and carried her slowly up the marble
stairs to the couch of Akman. He felt her cling to him like no woman
ever had, and as he placed her on the bed, she took his face in her
hands and kissed him for a long moment. Then he heard her whisper.
"Tonight we will know just each other. And there will be nothing else."
And they gave each to each until there was nothing more to give because
each was the other. Together, complete.
He was on the quarterdeck, the whipstaff aching against his hand, the
mainsail furled as storm winds lashed the waist of the ship with wave
after powerful wave. The ship was the _Queen's Hope_, his vessel when
he sailed for the Levant Company, and the rocks that towered off his
starboard bow were Gibraltar. He shouted into the dark for the
quartermaster to reef the tops'ls, and he leaned on the whipstaff to
bring her about, but neither responded. He had no crew. He was being
swept, helpless, toward the empty darkness that lay ahead. Another wave
caught him across the face, and somewhere in the dark came a screech,
as though the sea had given up some dying Leviathan beast. His seaboots
were losing their hold on the quarterdeck, and now the whipstaff had
grown sharp talons that cut into his hand. Then a woman's voice, a
distant siren calling him. Again the screech and then yet another wave
cut across his face.
The water tasted of roses. . . .
He jerked violently awake. On his hand a green parrot was perched,
preening itself and ruffling its feathers. And from the pool below
Shirin was flinging handfuls of water up over the side of the platform,
laughing as she tried to splash his face.
She was floating, naked, below him, her hair streaming out across the
surface of the water, tangled among the drifting rose petals. He looked
about and saw his own wet clothes, mingled among her silks and jewels.
For a moment he felt again the terror of the dream, the rudderless ship
impelled by something beyond control, and then he caught the edge of
the platform and slipped over the side.
The water was cool against his skin and involuntarily he caught his
breath. Then he reached out and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her
against him. She turned her face to his, twined her hair around his
head, and crushed his lips with her own. Just as suddenly, she threw
back her head and laughed with joy. He found himself laughing with her.
"Why don't we both just stay? I don't have to be back in Agra until the
wedding. We could have a week." He studied the perfect lines of her
face, the dark eyes at once defiant and anxious, and wished he could
hold her forever. The Worshipful East India Company be damned.
"But we both have things we must do." She revolved in the flowered
water and drew her face above his. She kissed him again, languorously.
Then she drew herself out of the water and twisted a wrap around her,
covering her breasts. "Both you and I."
"And what's this thing you have to do?"
Her eyes shadowed. "One thing I must try to do is convince Samad he
cannot stay here any longer. He has to go south, where Prince Jadar can
protect him. But he refuses to listen. And time is growing short now. I
truly fear for what may happen to him after the wedding. The Persian
Shi'ite mullahs will certainly be powerful enough then to demand he be
tried and executed on charges of heresy. For violating some obscure
precept of Islamic law. It will be the end for him." She paused. "And
for anyone who has helped him."
"Then if he won't leave, at least you should." He lifted himself out of
the water and settled beside her on the marble paving. "Why don't you
come back to England with me? When the fleet from Bantam makes landfall
at Surat, Arangbar will surely have the courage to sign the _firman_,
and then my mission will be finished. It should only be a matter of
weeks, regardless of what the Portugals try to do."
She studied the water of the pool with sadness in her eyes and said
nothing for a moment as she kicked the surface lightly.
"Neither of us is master of what will happen. Things are going to soon
be out of control. For both of us. Things are going to happen that you
will not understand."
Hawksworth squinted through the half-light. "What's going to happen?"
"Who can know? But I would not be surprised to see the prince betrayed
totally, in one final act that will eventually destroy him. He is too
isolated. Too weak. And when that happens we're all doomed. Even you,
though I don't think you'll believe that now."
"Why should I? I'm not betting on Prince Jadar. I agree with you. I
don't think he has a chance. I'm betting on a _firman _from Arangbar,
and soon."
"You'll never get a _firman _from the Moghul. And Arangbar will be gone
in half a year. The queen has already started appearing at morning
_darshan _and directing his decisions at afternoon _durbar_. As soon as
she has Allaudin under her control, Arangbar will be finished. Mark it.
He'll die from too much opium, or from some mysterious poison or
accident. He will cease to exist, to matter."
"I don't believe it. He seems pretty well in control."
"If that's what you think, then you are very deceived. He can't live
much longer. Everyone knows it. Perhaps even he knows it in his heart.
Soon he will give up even the appearance of rule. Then the queen will
take full command of the Imperial army, and Prince Jadar will be hunted
down like a wild boar."
He studied her, not sure he could reasonable contradict her, and felt
his stomach knot. "What will happen to you, if the queen takes over?"
"I don't know. But I do know I love you. I truly do. How
sad it makes me that I can't tell you everything." Her eyes darkened
and she took his hand. "Please understand I did not know the prince
would use you the way he has. But it is for good. Try to believe that."
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated and looked away. "Let me ask you this. What do you think
the prince will do after the wedding?"
"I don't know, but I think he'd be very wise to keep clear of Agra.
Nobody at court will even talk about him now, at least not openly.
Still, I think he might be able to stay alive if he's careful. If he
survives the campaign in the Deccan, maybe he can bargain something out
of the queen. But I agree with you about one thing. She can finish him
any time she wants. I understand she already has de facto control of
the Imperial army, in Arangbar's name of course. What can Jadar do?
He's outnumbered beyond any reasonable odds. Maybe she'll make him a
governor in the south if he doesn't challenge her."
"Do you really believe he'd accept that? Can't you see that's
impossible? You've met Prince Jadar. Do you think he'll just give up?
That's the one thing he'll never do. He has a son now. The people will
support him." She pulled herself next to him. "I feel so isolated and
hopeless just thinking about it all. I'm so glad Nadir Sharif brought
you here."
He slipped his arm around her. "So am I. Will you tell me now how you
managed to make him do it?"
"I still have friends left in Agra." She smiled. "And Nadir Sharif
still has a few indiscretions he'd like kept buried. Sometimes he can
be persuaded . . ."
"Did he know Samad was here?"
"If he didn't before, he does now. But he won't say anything. Anyway,
it hardly matters any more. The queen probably already knows Samad's
here." She sighed. "The worst is still waiting. For him. And for both
of us."
He caught a handful of water and splashed it against her thigh. "Then
let's not talk about it. Until tomorrow."
The worry in her eyes seemed to dissolve and she laughed. "Do you
realize how much you've changed since I first met you? You were as
stiff as a Portuguese Jesuit then, before Kali and Kamala got their
painted fingernails into you. Kali, the lover of the flesh, and Kamala,
the lover of the spirit." She glared momentarily. "Now I must take
care, lest you start comparing me with them. Never forget. I'm
different. I believe love should be both."
He pulled her away and looked at her face. "I'm amazed by how different
you are. I still have no idea what you're really like. What you really
think."
"About what?"
"Anything. Everything." He shrugged. "About this even."
"You mean being here with you? Making love with you?"
"That's a perfect place to start."
She smiled and eased back in the water, silently toying for a moment
with the rose petals drifting around her. "I think making love with
someone is how we share our deepest feelings. Things we can't express
any other way. It's how I tell you my love for you." She paused. "The
way music or poetry reveal the soul of the one who creates them."
"Are you saying you think lovemaking is like creating music?" He
examined her, puzzling.
"They both express what we feel inside."
He lifted up a handful of water and watched it trickle back into the
pool. "I've never thought of it quite like that before."
"Why not? It's true. Before you can create music, you have to teach
both your body and your heart. It's the same with making love."
"What do you mean?"
She reached and touched his thigh. "When we're very young, lovemaking
is mostly just desire. We may think it's more, but it isn't really.
Then gradually we learn more of its ways, how to give and receive. But
even then we still don't fully understand its deeper significance.
We're like a novice who has learned the techniques of the sitar, the
way to strike and pull a string to make one note blend into another,
but who still doesn't comprehend the spiritual depth of a raga. Its
power to move our heart. We still don't understand that its meaning and
feeling can only come from within. And love, like a raga, is an
expression of reverence and of wonder. Wonder at what we are and can
be. So even after all the techniques are mastered, we still must learn
to experience this wonder, this sense of our spirit becoming one with
the other. Otherwise it's somehow still empty. Like perfect music that
has no feeling, no life."
He was silent for a moment, trying to comprehend what she was saying.
"If you look at it like that, I suppose you could be right."
"With music, we first have to learn its language, then learn to open
our spirit. Lovemaking is just the same."
She nestled her head against his chest, sending her warmth through him.
As he held her, he noticed lying alongside the pool the garland of
flowers she had worn the night before. He reached and took it and
slipped it over her head. Then he kissed her gently, finding he was
indeed filled with wonder at the feeling he had for her.
He held her silently for a time, looking at the paintings on the walls
of the palace around them. Then he noticed a large straw basket at the
entryway.
"What is that?" He pointed.
She rose and looked. "I think it's something Samad had left for us."
She lifted herself out of the water and, holding her wrap against her,
brought the basket. It was filled with fruits and melons.
"They're not from Samarkand or Kabul, like you've probably grown
accustomed to at the palace in Agra. But I think you'll like them
anyway." She squinted across the square, in the direction of the
mosque. "I love Samad dearly. He did all of this for me. But he refuses
to listen to anything I say." She handed him an apple, then reached and
took some grapes. "You know, I think he secretly wants to die a martyr.
Like a lover eager to die for his or her beloved. He wants to die for
his wild freedom, for what he thinks is beautiful. Perhaps to be
remembered as one who never bowed to anyone. I wish I had his
strength."
"Where's he now?"
"You won't see him any more. But he's still here. He'll have food sent
to us. He loves me like a daughter, and he's happy when I am. And he
knows now you make me happy. But you mustn't see him here again, even
know that he's here. It would be too dangerous for you. Perhaps
someday, if we're all still alive."
He took her face in his hands and held it up to him. "You have as much
strength as anyone, including Samad. And I want to get you away from
here before your strength makes you do something foolish. I love you
more than my own life."
"And I love you. Like I've never loved anyone."
"Not even the Great Moghul? When you were in his _zenana_?"
She laughed. "You know that was very different. I was scarcely more
than a girl then. I didn't know anything."
"You learned a few things somewhere." He remembered the night past,
still astonished. The way she had . . .
"In the _zenana _you learn everything about lovemaking. But nothing
about love." She rose and took his hand. Together they walked to the
open portico of the palace. Around them the red pavilions were empty in
the early sunshine. The morning was still, save for the cries of the
green parrots who scurried across eaves and peered down impassively
from weathered red railings and banisters. His gaze followed the wide
arches, then turned to her dark shining hair. He reached out and
stroked it.
"Tell me more about it. How did you learn Turki?"
"In the _zenana_. We had to learn it, even though Arangbar speaks
perfect Persian." She turned to him. "And how did you learn to
understand it?"
"In a Turkish prison." He laughed. "It seems about the same to me. I
had to learn it too."
"Will you tell me about it? Why were you in prison?"
"Like you, I had no choice. The Turks took a ship I was commanding, in
the Mediterranean."
"Tell me what happened."
He stopped and looked at her. "All right. We'll trade. You tell me all
about you and I'll tell you everything about me. We'll leave out
nothing. Agreed?" She reached and kissed him. "Will you begin first?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The imminent wedding of Prince Allaudin and Princess Layla was a
momentous event in the history of the Moghul empire. It represented the
final merging of two dynasties. One, that of the Moghul Akman and his
first son Arangbar, was in direct assent from the Mongols of the
steppes who had conquered India by the sword less than a century
before, melding under one rule a disorganized array of Muslim and Hindu
states. The other dynasty, that of Queen Janahara, her Persian father
Zainul Beg, her brother Nadir Sharif, and now her daughter Layla,
represented a very different kind of conqueror. At court they were
called, always in whispers, the "Persian junta."
Whereas no combination of forces indigenous to India--even the
recalcitrant Rajput warrior chieftains of the northwest--had ever
succeeded in wresting power from the invading Moghuls, this
extraordinary Persian family had, in one generation, come to rule India
virtually as equals with the dynasty of Akman, assuming the power that
the decadent Arangbar had let slowly slip away. With the marriage of
Queen Janahara's daughter to the weakling son of Arangbar, a son she
was carefully promoting to the role of heir-apparent, the last element
in the Persian strategy would be in place. When Arangbar died, or was
dethroned, the powerful line of Akman, who had unified India by a blend
of force and diplomatic marriages, would be supplanted by what was, in
effect, a palace coup. The "Persian junta" would have positioned itself
to assume effective control of India: Prince Allaudin, for so long as
he was allowed to maintain even the appearance of rule, would be
nothing more than a titular sovereign. Queen Janahara, together with
her father and her brother, would be the real ruler of India.
The queen could, of course, have contented herself for a time longer
merely to direct Arangbar from beside the throne, but that could never
be entirely satisfactory. Arangbar still wielded power when he so
chose, and that power could be enormous.
India had no independent judiciary, no parliament, no constitution.
There was, instead and only, the word of the Moghul. Criminals were
brought before him to be tried and sentenced. Offices of state were
filled, or vacated, on his personal whim. The army marched at his word.
And he owned, in effect, a large part of Indian soil, since large
estates went not to heirs but returned to the Moghul when their current
"owner" died. He granted lands and salaries as reward for loyalty and
service. And he alone granted titles. Seldom in history had a land so
vast, and a people so diverse, been held so absolutely under the
unquestioned rule of a single hand. Queen Janahara now looked
confidently forward to the day that hand would be hers.
The power Arangbar now possessed was thought by many to have brought
his own undoing. Originally an introspective if sometimes whimsical
sovereign--whose early memoirs were filled with scientific observations
on India's fauna and flora, and statesman-like ruminations on the
philosophy of governing--he had become slowly dissolute to the point of
incapacity. A man who had forsworn both alcohol and drugs until well
into his third decade of life, he was now hopelessly addicted to both.
In consequence his judgment and instincts had grown ever more
unreliable. And since all appointments of salary and place depended on
his word alone, no career or fortune was truly secure. It was into this
vacuum of sound leadership that the "Persian junta" of Janahara's
family had moved.
The Persian junta was supported by all those at court who feared
Arangbar's growing caprice, by other influential Persians, by the
powerful mullahs of the Shi'ite sect of Islam, by Hindus who still
habored historic grievances against Moghul rule . . . and by the
Portuguese. The "Persian junta" was not loved. But it did not need to
be loved; it enjoyed an even more compelling ingredient for success: it
was feared. Even those who might have preferred the succession of
Prince Jadar wisely held silent. The tides of history were there for
all to see.
Even Brian Hawksworth saw them.
The private palace of Zainul Beg, father of Janahara and Nadir Sharif
and grandfather of Princess Layla, was more modest than that of Nadir
Sharif, and its architecture more Persian, almost consciously
reminiscent of the land of his birth. It lay on the banks of the Jamuna
River, farther down from the palace of Nadir Sharif, and this evening
it was brilliantly illuminated by bonfires along the riverside. Even
the river itself was lighted. A dozen barks filled with lamps had been
towed upriver from the Red Fort, and now their camphor-oil flames cast
a dazzling white sheen over the pink turrets of the palace. On the
opposite bank of the Jamuna, men were lighting candles and floating
them in hollow clay pots across the surface of the water, where they
drifted gently downstream toward the Red Fort, creating a line of
illumination that would eventually stretch for miles.
Although Hawksworth's money was starting to grow short, he had used a
large portion of what was left to purchase a new pair of striped Indian
trousers, an expensive brocade turban, and ornate velvet slippers. He
alighted from his palanquin at the palace gate looking like a Moghul
grandee, to be greeted almost immediately by Zainul Beg's eunuchs and
ushered into the main hall. As he entered, the eunuchs directed him
toward a large silver fish stationed by the door. It was ornamented
with green lapis lazuli scales and fitted with seven spouts shooting
thin streams of rosewater outward into a large basin. Hawksworth was by
now accustomed to this Moghul ritual, and he quickly removed his new
slippers and splashed his feet in the basin to the minimal extent
acceptable. Then he turned and made his way through the line of nobles
reverently awaiting the arrival of Arangbar. He had become such a
familiar sight at royal gatherings that his presence excited no unusual
notice.
The marble walls of the hall were hung with new Persian tapestries and
the floors covered with silk carpets embroidered with silver and gold.
At the corners were immense vases of solid gold studded with precious
stones that sparkled in the lamp light. Incense burners wrought from
silver hung from the walls. Servants circulated among the crowd bearing
trays of rolled betel leaves, glasses of lemony _sharbat_, and cups of
green milky _bhang_. In deference to the ceremonial significance of
this holy Muslim occasion, there would be no wine until after the
Shi'ite mullahs had left. Hawksworth decided to take a glass of
_sharbat _and wait for the wine.
He strolled through the buzzing crowd of bejeweled men and anonymous,
veiled women and reflected on the bizarre ceremonies of a Moghul
marriage.
His first taste had come only the previous evening, when he had been
invited to the Red Fort to witness and take part in the henna _bandi
_ceremony. The square just below the _Diwan-i-Khas_, where Arangbar's
birthday weighing was held only two weeks before, had been cleared and
made ready for the henna ceremony. Hawksworth had arrived and been
granted a place near Nadir Sharif and Arangbar. The crowd was already
being entertained by music and dancing women. Allaudin was there,
slightly nervous in anticipation of his upcoming ordeal.
Then the procession arrived: women of the _zenana _rode into the
courtyard on palanquins, in a flower-bedecked line bearing henna--a red
paste extracted from the plant of the same name--and gifts sent from
Layla to Allaudin. The bride was not present; she had not yet been seen
by Allaudin or any of his family, including Arangbar. The women of the
_zenana_, all veiled, spread before the Moghul the gifts that, on this
night, the bride was expected to present to the bridegroom. The eunuchs
bore trays which had been covered with basketwork raised in domes, over
which were thrown draperies of gold cloth and brocade in a rainbow of
colors. They were brought before Allaudin and Arangbar and uncovered
one by one. The first tray was of beaten silver and it held a new suit
for the bridegroom, a tailored cloak and trousers woven with strands of
gold. Others bore gold and silver vessels containing cosmetics and
toiletries--collyrium, kohl, musky perfumes--and plates of sweets, betel
leaves tied with strings of gold, and a confectionary of dried fruits
and preserves. The eunuchs also brought in sprays of flowers containing
disguised fireworks wheels, which were ignited as they entered to
create a startling, fiery garden of color.
Next the women led Allaudin to rooms behind the _Diwan-i-Khas_, where
he was dressed in the new clothes provided for him by the bride. Bamboo
slats were placed across the doorway to enable the _zenana _women to
watch the ceremony. While he was gone, an opening was prepared in the
screen separating the _zenana _from the courtyard and a low stool was
placed just outside. The screen was specially constructed to allow the
hands and feet of the one sitting on the stool to be reached from
behind it.
When Allaudin returned, he assumed his place again beside Arangbar,
shifting occasionally in mild discomfort from the stiff new clothes. It
was obvious to Hawksworth that he wished to appear bored by the
ceremonies, but his eyes betrayed his apprehension.
Then a eunuch approached and announced to the male assembly--Arangbar,
Allaudin, Nadir Sharif, Zainul Beg, and a retinue of other men with
vague ties to royal blood who were waiting at the center of the
courtyard--that "the bridegroom is wanted."
"Go quickly." Arangbar pushed Allaudin toward the stool waiting in
front of the screen covering the entrance to the zenana. "It's always a
man's fate to be made the fool by his women."
Allaudin marched across the courtyard with as much dignity as his stiff
new clothes allowed, and seated himself with a flourish on the stool.
The air was rich with incense and music from the upper balconies. As
Hawksworth and the other male guests watched, women from behind the
screen ordered Allaudin to insert his hands and feet through the new
holes. He was then teased and fed small lumps of sugar candy while the
women behind the screen began to tie dark red cloths, soaked in a paste
of moist leaves of henna, onto his hands and feet.
"This ceremony is very important, Inglish." Arangbar had beamed with
satisfaction as he watched. "Henna is a charm to promote their union.
The women anoint the bride with it also, in private. It will make him
virile and her fertile."
As the women continued to dye Allaudin's hands and feet with the paste,
musicians and singers began to entertain him. Some of the songs, all
extemporary, lauded him as a prince among men, while others rhapsodized
over the beauty of the bride. Listening to their songs, Hawksworth had
to remind himself that none of the singers had actually seen the bride,
whose beauty they now extolled as that of one woman in thousands. Then
the singers sang of the impending happiness of the pair, as inevitable,
they declared, as that Paradise awaiting Believers after life on earth
is past.
After the women had finished their task, Allaudin turned to face the
assembled men wearing a vaguely sheepish expression. Hawksworth had
caught himself laughing out loud at the preposterous figure Allaudin
struck, standing before them with hands and feet dripping red with
henna.
Then he noticed a group of veiled women filing out from behind the
screen and approaching. They carried a silver chalice filled with red
henna paste. The women stopped in front of Arangbar, bowed with the
_teslim_, and began to anoint his fingers with henna. Then they tied
each reddened finger with a small, goId-embroidered handkerchief. He
smiled widely and signaled a eunuch to bring him a ball of opium. Next
the women proceeded to Zainul Beg and reddened his fingers also, then
Nadir Sharif, then all the other family members. Finally they stopped
in front of Hawksworth.
A robust woman from the _zenana _seized his fingers and began to daub
them with henna paste. It was thick and smelled of saffron. He watched
helplessly as his fingers disappeared into the red, after which they
too were swathed in the small kerchiefs of silk and gold.
"It will make you virile too, Inglish. This is a great omen for your
good fortune," Arangbar observed wryly, delighted by the confused look
on Hawksworth's face.
The women disappeared back into the _zenana _and the music began again,
now with more dancers. Hawksworth recognized among them the young women
Sangeeta, who had danced Kathak for Arangbar that first night in the
_Diwan-i-Khas_. She was resplendent, and her face announced her pride
in being selected for the first night of the wedding celebrations.
After she had finished her dance, the veiled women again emerged from
the _zenana_, carrying a large silver vessel, and saluted Allaudin. He
was brought to the center of the square, where they began to remove the
red bindings on his hands and feet. His hands, then his feet, were
bathed in rosewater. After they were dried, he was taken back to the
_Diwan-i-Khas _and attired in yet another of the new suits of clothes
given to him by the bride. He returned to the general cheers of the
assembled guests, whose hands had also been washed while he was gone.
As the formal ceremonies drew to a close, Arangbar produced heavy
brocade waist sashes for all the male guests. Hawksworth was last, and
when he received his from Arangbar's hand, he bowed in thanks and
examined it quizzically.
"It is a _kamar-band_, Inglish, for you to wear tomorrow night at the
wedding." Arangbar took Hawksworth's red-stained fingers and examined
them for a moment. "If you can get the rest of the henna off your
fingers by then."
He roared with delight and signaled the musicians to start again.
Allaudin was escorted from the square by a number of young men in
foppish cloaks--Hawksworth assumed they were his friends--and then, as
midnight approached, servants appeared with the evening's meal.
While the men drank and dined, Sangeeta entertained them with more
Kathak dance. When she was near exhaustion, other dancers were brought
out, and the music and dance continued undiminished through the short
hours remaining before dawn. Only when the eastern sky began to lighten
did Arangbar rise and bid the guests farewell. The courtyard cleared in
moments.
As the crowd dispersed, Hawksworth watched the Moghul down another ball
of opium and call for Sangeeta to accompany him into the palace. She
was escorted by the eunuchs, her smile brighter than the rising sun.
Hawksworth was momentarily startled as a fanfare of trumpets announced
to the guests in Zainul Beg's hall that Arangbar was approaching. The
center of the hall cleared, leaving a pathway from the entrance to a
low platform at the opposite end, on which were two large cushions
fashioned from gold cloth. On some unseen command musicians in an
adjacent room began to play, and then the doors of the hall opened
wide.
Women from Arangbar's _zenana _entered first, sweeping past the guests
in a glitter of silks and jewels unlike anything Hawksworth had ever
seen. The women displayed heavy gold necklaces and multiple strands of
pearls. Their arms were scarcely visible beneath their wide gold
bracelets. For this evening, all wore a headdress of silver cloth and a
veil.
More trumpets sounded as Arangbar himself entered, Queen Janahara
striding imperiously behind him. Hawksworth examined her hard features
with curiosity for a moment before the significance of the scene
registered. She was not wearing a veil.
He looked about him and realized that the other guests had noticed as
well.
Nadir Sharif trailed behind the royal couple, and after him came a few
select officials of the court, including the _qazi _who would perform
the ceremony and officially record the marriage.
As Arangbar and Janahara seated themselves on the cushioned platform,
the guests all performed the _teslim_. Arangbar motioned for the crowd
to be seated, and Hawksworth was already halfway to the carpet before
he noticed that no one else had moved. Only after Arangbar had demanded
three times that the guests seat themselves did those around Hawksworth
accede to his request.
More trays of rolled betel leaves and _sharbat _were circulated, and
the guests settled to listen to a lively raga performed on sitar and
tabla drums by musicians who were seated on a small dais at the
opposite end of the hall. The time was approaching eight o'clock when
the musicians brought the music to a rousing finish.
Hawksworth found himself beginning to wonder where the bride and groom
were. They were nowhere to be seen.
No sooner had the last notes of the raga melted into the tapestried
walls than there came a knocking at the closed doors of the hall. There
were sounds of a raucous, but not rancorous, argument. Everyone around
Hawksworth fell silent to listen. There were more words, and he managed
to grasp that the family of the bride was demanding a payment for
entry, apparently a mock ritual. Finally there was the jingle of coins
dropping into a cup. The money seemed to settle the dispute, for the
doors of the hall suddenly burst open, to the sounds of a trumpet
fanfare.
Hawksworth looked through the doorway to see a horse and rider,
surrounded by a milling crowd.
In the lamplight he could see the horse was covered with a fine brocade
tapestry, into which fresh flowers had been woven. Its legs, tail, and
mane had been dyed red with henna, and all its body outside the
tapestry was covered with glistening spangles. The rider's cloak and
turban were heavy with gold thread, and his face was hidden behind a
thick veil of silver cloth attached to the top of this turban and
hanging to his waist. On either side of the horse two young men stood,
each carrying a large paper umbrella, which they held over the rider's
head. Behind them clustered singers, dancers, musicians, and a mob of
tipsy young men in extravagant finery.
The crowd cheered the veiled rider and he saluted them. From the
chatter of the guests, Hawksworth gathered that the horse had led a
procession through the streets of Agra for the past two hours in
preparation for this grand entrance.
The rider, whom Hawksworth assumed to be Prince Allaudin, was helped
onto the back of one of the young men. He was then carried to the dais
where Arangbar and Janahara sat and gently lowered to the ground. The
silver veil was removed and he performed the _teslim_, the fatigue in
his face beginning to show.
Arangbar beckoned him to rise, and two eunuchs who had been part of the
Moghul's train stepped forward and placed two large silver boxes beside
him on the dais. Arangbar opened the first and drew out a string of
large pearls. He admired them for a moment, showed them to Janahara,
then looped them around Allaudin's neck. Next he opened the other box
and drew out a crown of silver trimmed in gold. He rose to his feet and
held it aloft.
"Two months past I presented a _sachaq_, a marriage present, of two
_lakhs _of silver rupees to honor the bride. And tonight I bestow on my
son the same _sehra_, the same bridegroom's crown, that was placed on
my head the night I wed Her Majesty, Queen Janahara."
Allaudin slipped off his turban and knelt before Arangbar. After the
crown was fitted, he stood erect to acknowledge the cheers of the
crowd.
Without further ceremony, Arangbar turned and spoke to Zainul Beg. The
old _wazir _beckoned two eunuchs forward and passed an order. There
were shouts, and torches were lighted in the upper balcony of the hall.
Then, as Hawksworth watched in amazement, the tapestries at the far end
of the hall were drawn away, opening the pavilion to the riverfront.
Arangbar and Janahara revolved on their cushions to face the water,
which was now a sea of floating candles and lamps. The guests surged
forward toward the opening, and as Hawksworth passed near the royal
dais, Arangbar's voice cut through the din.
"Inglish, come and join us. There will be no henna on your fingers
tonight." He gestured toward the carpet near his feet. "Sit here. I
would have your opinion of this."
"Thank you, Your Majesty." Hawksworth sensed that Arangbar was already
partly drunk. "What will happen now?"
"Just more tradition, Inglish, but the part I always enjoy most." He
pointed toward the river, where servants were carrying torches in the
direction of three decorated wheels, each several feet across, mounted
atop what appeared to be small-gauge cannon. "Tell me if your king has
anything to equal this."
As he spoke the servants touched the torches to the center of each
wheel. Lines of burning sulfur traced their spokes, then ignited the
squibs attached around their perimeter. At that instant, other servants
stepped forward and thrust a burning taper to the touchhole of each
cannon. The cannon spewed flame, lofting the wheels upward over the
river. They suddenly began to rotate, creating a whirling circle of
colored flame tips in the night sky. Just as they reached the top of
their trajectory, they began to explode one by one, showering sparks
and fire across the face of the Jamuna.
The turbaned crowd scarcely had time to exclaim its delight before a
blue flame suddenly appeared from behind where the wheels had been,
illuminating the palace walls in a shimmering, ghostly light. As it
grew, Hawksworth realized it was an artificial tree whose branches were
saturated with black powder and brimstone. Next more flames spewed from
the tops of five towers that had been erected near the riverfront.
There were sharp reports, as though a musket had been fired, and dense
streaks of red billowed into the sky. All around powder pots began to
explode, hurtling lightning, dazzling white with camphor, and writhing
serpents of flame into the smoky night air.
"Well, Inglish, what do you think?' Arangbar turned to Hawksworth with
a delighted smile. "Have you ever seen anything to compare?"
"We have fireworks in England too, Your Majesty, particularly on the
eve of St. John's Day, when we have barges of fireworks on the Thames.
And sometimes they're used in plays and pageants. And at the wedding of
His Majesty's daughter, four of King James's gunners gave a show with a
fiery castle, a dragon, a damsel, and St. George. But English fireworks
generally make more noise than these." Hawksworth paused, wondering how
much to tell. "And some countries in Europe use fireworks in battle,
Majesty. Helmets that throw fire, swords and lances with fiery points,
and bucklers that give out flames when struck."
Arangbar gave him a puzzled glance. "But what good are those, Inglish?
In battle the most important use of flame is the fire lance. What use
are sparking swords? Watch and you will see what I mean."
Arangbar pointed to a line of Rajput marksmen, carrying horn bows and
heavy spears, who had assembled at one side of the clearing. While they
fell into a formation perpendicular to the river, servants were placing
clay pots on small stands at the opposite side, perhaps seventy yards
away. The Rajputs watched impassively as the arrows in their bows were
lighted, and then on the shout of their commander they lifted their
bows and fired in unison.
Ten streaks of flame shot across the riverfront, and the crowd fell
expectantly silent. All the arrows seemed to reach their target at
precisely the same instant. Each had been aimed at a separate pot, and
as they impacted, the silence was rent by what sounded like a single
explosion. The pots, Hawksworth realized, had been primed with powder,
ready to detonate.
The smoke was still drifting across the grounds when torch carriers
with large flambeaux moved to the center, illuminating scaffolding that
had been hastily erected. More clay pots, painted white, hung suspended
from the scaffolds on long ropes. The servants set the pots swinging
and then fell back, while the Rajputs ignited the tips of their spears.
Again flame streaked across the clearing and again there was a
simultaneous explosion as the spears caught the swinging pots.
Arangbar joined the cheers, then turned and slapped Hawksworth on the
shoulder. "That, Inglish, is how you use fire in battle. You must put
it where you want it. No soldier of India would be daunted by trick
swords and bucklers."
"My king agrees with you, Majesty. He leaves such toys to the Germans."
The display continued for almost an hour, as one exotic device after
another was carried next to the riverfront. The water became littered
with burning paper and the air so dense with smoke that Queen Janahara
finally started to cough. Arangbar immediately ordered an end to the
fireworks, and as the crowd filed back into the hall, the tapestries
were lowered to again conceal the smoky view of the river.
Now the music began, and the dancing, as musicians and women moved to
the center of the hall. Servants circulated with more betel leaves and
_sharbat_, and Arangbar took his first ball of opium.
Hawksworth glanced guardedly at the queen. Her manner was imperious,
regal, everything a sovereign should be. Everything Allaudin was not.
And, he thought, probably a lot Arangbar himself is not.
She'll soon have India by the _cojones_, not a doubt on it. And then
it's farewell Jadar. And probably farewell Arangbar too. Will I get a
signed _firman _for trade before it's too late?
As midnight neared, the music and dance were suddenly interrupted by
trumpets and a drum roll and shouts of "the bride comes." The curtains
covering a large doorway leading into the palace were drawn open, and a
closed palanquin was brought in by four eunuchs. It was accompanied by
veiled women singing something Hawksworth did not understand. The
palanquin was carried to the center of the room, where a low platform
covered with gold brocade had been positioned, and then the eunuchs
lowered it to the marble floor. The curtains were drawn aside and a
veiled woman emerged, her small body almost smothered in a dress that
seemed made of multiple layers of beaten gold. She was helped to the
middle of the platform, still wearing a veil that covered her entire
face. Chants of "Hail to the bride" arose on all sides.
Then Allaudin was escorted forward, taking his place on the platform
beside her. He stole a quick, distasteful glance at the veiled figure
beside him, then an official smile illuminated his face and he sat
patiently as the _qazi _was summoned in front of them. The official was
bearded, stern- faced, and transparently arrogant. He stood before the
veiled bride and motioned around him for silence.
"Is it by your own consent that this marriage take place with Prince
Allaudin, son of His Royal Majesty?"
From beneath the layers of the veil came a muffled, almost hesitant,
"It is by my consent."
The _qazi _seemed satisfied and began reading a passage from the Quran,
informing her that marriage depends on three circumstances: the assent
of the bride and groom, the evidence of two witnesses, and the marriage
settlement. He then turned to Allaudin and asked him to name the sum he
brought.
Allaudin mumbled a figure that Hawksworth did not catch, but then the
_qazi _repeated it for the guests. Hawksworth caught his breath when he
realized the amount named was fifty _lakhs _of rupees. Then Allaudin
said something else, which the _qazi _did not repeat.
Later Hawksworth learned that Allaudin had added he was giving only ten
lakhs of rupees then, and the balance at some indefinite future time.
The _qazi _blessed the royal pair, praying that they would be blissful
in this world and in eternity, and then wrote something quickly in a
book he carried. Finally the eunuchs appeared again and assisted the
bride into the palanquin. The marriage ceremony seemed to be over.
A glass of wine was placed in Hawksworth's hand, and he looked up to
see Arangbar beaming with satisfaction.
"Now we drink, Inglish. Come, sit closer and help me toast the
bridegroom."
"It was truly a royal wedding, Your Majesty."
"But it's not over, Inglish." Arangbar roared with laughter. "The
hardest part is yet to come. Does my son have the strength to complete
the work he's offered to undertake? No one can leave until we're sure."
Hawksworth had begun his third glass of wine when Princess Layla
reappeared, wearing a lighter dress, though still resplendent. Behind
her eunuchs carried several palanquins piled high with vessels and
trays of silver. Following them were servants bearing bundles on their
heads.
"Those are the wares she brings to the marriage, Inglish, and her
servants. I think she will make him a good wife."
The royal pair moved together, Layla still veiled, and then Queen
Janahara stepped down from the dais and took a large mirror handed her
by a turbaned eunuch. She walked to the couple and stopped directly in
front of them. As they stood facing her, she held the mirror before
Allaudin and reached to lift Layla's veil, giving him his first glimpse
of his bride.
Hawksworth studied her with curiosity. She was plain. And she looked
very frightened.
"It's auspicious, Inglish, if his first sight of his bride is in a
mirror. I have not seen her before either." Arangbar examined her for a
moment, then turned to Nadir Sharif. "What do you think? Should I buy
him another one for his bed?"
"She's a goddess of beauty, Majesty. Inspiration for a poet."
"Is that what you think?" Arangbar sipped pensively from his cup.
"Well, perhaps it's true. We'll discover soon enough if she inspires
her groom."
The guests watched as Allaudin and Layla were helped into a large
palanquin. In moments their procession was winding out of the palace,
followed by Layla's household silver, to a great fanfare of drums and
trumpets and the shouts of servants.
"Peace on the Prophet!"
"There is no nobility but the nobility of Mohammed!"
"Allah be with Him, the noblest, the purest, the highest!"
Hawksworth settled back against his bolster and realized groggily that
it was already past two o'clock in the morning.
When the wedding procession had disappeared from view, the jubilant
servants immediately turned to preparations for the banquet.
"Sometimes life can be sweet, Inglish." Arangbar leaned back against a
bolster and pinched Janahara's hand. "I think he should have more
wives. You know there's a saying in India: 'A man should have four
wives: A Persian to have someone to talk to; a Khurasani to keep his
house; a big-breasted Hindu from the South to nurse his children; and a
Bengali to whip, as a warning to the other three.' So far he has only
the Persian."
Hawksworth noticed that Janahara did not join in the general laughter.
Then Arangbar took another drink and turned to Hawksworth.
"But you know I don't entirely agree with that wisdom, Inglish. The
Holy Prophet, on whom be peace, wisely realized a man needs more than
one wife. He also demanded of us that we give each of them equal
attention, never to turn away from any one of them. What man can do
that, even with Allah's help? It is never possible. So we all do the
best we can. It is the will of Allah." Arangbar paused to swallow a
ball of affion as he watched the trays of lamb being placed before
them. "Tell me, Inglish, have you found a wife for yourself yet?"
"Not as yet, Your Majesty." He paused. "There are so many to choose."
"Then take more than one, Inglish." Arangbar washed down the opium.
"It's not allowed for a Christian, Majesty."
"Then become a Muslim." Arangbar smiled and took another sip from his
glass. "Are you circumcised, Inglish?"
"Majesty?"
"Never mind." Arangbar laughed out loud. "Neither am I. How are the
mullahs to know? My father, Akman, actually wanted to start his own
religion, combining the wisdom of India, Persia, and the West. He
thought circumcision was an absurd practice. You know, there was once a
_feringhi _here, I believe he was Portuguese, who decided to become a
Muslim, a True Believer. Apparently he had found a Muslim woman he
wanted to marry, and her father declared she could never marry a
Christian. So he had himself circumcised." Arangbar paused
dramatically. "And immediately bled to death. But doubtless he was
healed by the time he reached Paradise. Perhaps he made up there for
what he missed here." Arangbar chuckled and took a sip of wine.
Hawksworth noticed that Queen Janahara was trying with great difficulty
to retain her pleased expression. "Do you believe there is a Paradise
after death, Inglish?"
"What man can say. Majesty? No one has returned from death to tell what
he found. I think life is best lived in the present."
"I've always believed the same, Inglish. And I've lived as few men on
Allah's earth have lived." Arangbar settled himself against his bolster
and reached for another glass. He was starting to grow visibly tipsy.
"I now enjoy all Allah could possibly grant to a living man. There is
nothing on earth I cannot have. And yet, do you know, I still have many
griefs. Show me the man whose heart is free of grief." He took a piece
of lamb from a dish and washed it down. "So I find my greatest
happiness with wine. Like a low-caste camel driver. Why must I still
endure sorrow, Inglish?"
"We all are mortal. Majesty."
"That we are. Inglish. But I will soon see this Paradise, if it exists.
I will find out the truth soon enough. And when I'm finally wise, who
will then come after me? Now my sons practically war among themselves.
Someday, Inglish, I fear they may decide to war against me as well. And
what of those I see around me? Do they think I am blind to their
deceit?" Arangbar leaned farther back on the bolster. Nadir Sharif sat
listening, rolling a ball of lamb between his fingers. "Sometimes I
think you may be the only honest man left in India, Inglish. You are
the only one who has ever dared refuse to _teslim_. It is only with the
greatest forbearance that I do not order you hanged."
"I thank Your Majesty." Hawksworth took a decanter and poured more wine
into Arangbar's glass before replenishing his own.
"No, Inglish, instead you should thank your Christian God. If He
listens to you. But sometimes I wonder. I've heard you called a heretic
more than once."
"And I have names for the Jesuits, Your Majesty. Would you care to hear
them?"
"No, Inglish. Frankly, I have names for them too. But tell me, what am
I to do to find peace?" Arangbar lowered his voice, but only slightly.
"I see around me an army of sycophants, _nautch _women dressed as men.
Whom dare I trust? You know, my own people were once warriors, Mongols
of the steppes. They knew that the only ties that last are blood. And
that's why this wedding cheers me. It is blood to blood." Arangbar
turned and again touched Janahara's hand. Her face was expressionless
as she accepted the gesture. "The only person in India I dare trust
completely is my own queen. She is the only one who cannot, will not
deceive me. Never. I feel it is true, as I feel nothing else in life.
Nothing else."
Janahara's face remained a mask as Arangbar drank again. Nadir Sharif
was watching wordlessly, his face beginning to turn noticeably grim.
Hawksworth realized he had not been mentioned.
"I have loved her since I was a youth, Inglish," Arangbar continued,
his voice growing maudlin. "And she has never betrayed my trust. That's
the reason I would do anything she asked me. Anything, anytime. I
always know it is right."
Hawksworth found himself marveling as he glanced at Janahara's
calculating eyes.
I'd not trust her with two pence. He must be God's own fool.
Arangbar sat silent for a moment, savoring his own pronouncement, then
he turned to Janahara and spoke to her in a dull slur.
"Ask something of me. Let me prove to the Inglish that I can never deny
you."
Janahara turned as though she had not been listening. Hawksworth knew
she had been straining for every word.
"What could I ask, Majesty? You have given me all I could ever want.
Tonight you even gave me a husband for my daughter. Now I can die with
the peace of Allah."
"But I must give you something." He settled his wine cup shakily on the
carpet, jostling red splashes across the Persian design. "You must name
it."
"But there is nothing I could ask that I do not already have."
"Sometimes you vex me with your good nature. The Inglish will now
suspect the Moghul of India is a vain braggart." He fumbled with his
turban, trying to detach the large blue sapphire attached to the front.
"I will give you a jewel, even though you have not asked it."
"I beg Your Majesty." She reached to stay his hand. "There is nothing
more I could ever want."
"But I must give you something."
She smiled in defeat. "If you must bestow a present, why not give
something to the bride and groom? This is their wedding, not mine."
"Then at least you must name it. It will be my gift to you through
them." He turned to Hawksworth. "Whatever else you do. Inglish, never
marry a Persian. They forever study to try your patience."
Hawksworth noticed Nadir Sharifs eyes harden as he listened. He slowly
gripped the side of his bolster and absently pulled away a piece of
gold fringe.
"Then give them a small token, to show your confidence in Allaudin."
"I asked you to name it."
"Very well. Perhaps you could grant him the royal _jagirs _in Dholpur,
those closest to Agra."
Arangbar's sleepy eyes widened slightly.
"Those _jagirs _always go to the prince nearest the throne. I granted
them only last year to Prince Jadar, as part of his price to undertake
the campaign in the Deccan."
"But Prince Allaudin can administer them more easily. He's here. And
you can compensate Jadar with others. Perhaps some in the north, near
the fortress of Qandahar? You'll have to send him there after the
campaign in the Deccan." Janahara's voice was silken now.
Hawksworth turned to see Nadir Sharifs face growing ashen.
She's trying to drive Jadar into oblivion. Rob him of his best estates,
then send him to defend a piece of mountain rock. Surely Arangbar will
refuse. Jadar will never agree. She must know that. Nadir Sharif
certainly knows it.
"What would Prince Jadar say to such a trade?" Arangbar sipped from his
wineglass and shifted slightly, his eyes again barely in focus.
"Why should he object? He's never here. And surely he'll be ready to
obey Your Majesty and return to defend Qandahar after he completes his
campaign in the south. The threat from the Persian Safavis in the north
is already growing."
"I doubt very much he will agree so easily to march north again. Not
yet. Though I pray to Allah that he would."
"Then this will give him all the more reason."
"He may not see it as a reason. He may see it as a betrayal. You know
he's temperamental."
Hawksworth suddenly found himself wondering if the trade had been
planned with Allaudin. It was obvious Nadir Sharif had been taken
completely by surprise.
"Then I suppose it's best dropped." Janahara turned her face away. "You
can just forget I ever asked."
Arangbar looked crushed. He sipped thoughtfully on his wine for a
moment.
"Perhaps if I consulted Prince Jadar first." He paused to study his
empty wine cup. "The _jagirs _ were granted . . ."
"Perhaps Your Majesty thinks Prince Allaudin should have no estates at
all? Perhaps you think he is not yet fit?"
"He's fit, by Allah. He's my son." Arangbar impulsively seized another
ball of opium and began to chew on it thoughtfully. "I'll find a way to
compensate Jadar. Surely he'll be reasonable. After all, there must be
a wedding gift."
"Then you'll agree to grant it?" Janahara's tone was quiet and
inquiring."
"Majesty." Nadir Sharifs voice seemed strangely unguarded. "Prince
Jadar . . ."
Arangbar seemed not to hear him. "I grant it. In the morning I'll
summon the _qazi_, and let this be recorded as my gift to my youngest
son and his new bride." Arangbar's tenseness seemed to dissolve as he
leaned back on the bolster and took another ball of opium. "But only on
the condition that he perform his duty tonight. Let him plow the field
he has before he's granted more."
Arangbar turned to Hawksworth. "Do you know what else will happen,
Inglish, if he fails in his duty the first night?"
"No, Majesty."
"Some of her women will send him a distaff, which they use with their
spinning wheels. With a message that since he cannot do a man's work,
it is fitting he should do a woman's. But I think he'll succeed."
Arangbar turned to Janahara with a wink. "He's been practicing for
months with the _nautch _girls in the palace."
The queen did not smile as she took a rolled betel leaf from a tray.
A messenger appeared at the foot of the dais and performed the
_teslim_. His voice was quivering. "The sheet has not yet come out, may
it please Your Majesty."
Arangbar laughed. "Then perhaps the furrow is too narrow to receive his
plow. Have a mullah bless some water and send it in to him. And tell
him I'm waiting to see if he's yet a man."
"A Shi'ite mullah, Your Majesty, or a Sunni?"
"From this night forward, he will have Shi'ite mullahs perform all the
duties for his household," Janahara interrupted.
The messenger performed the _teslim _to the queen and backed from the
room. Arangbar sat silent, drinking.
"What does it matter?" He finally turned to her. "Let him have whatever
he pleases."
"That is easy for you to say. But it does not please Allah. Tonight
should be taken as an omen."
"Tonight is an omen of nothing. Tonight my son is charged to make a
woman out of a Persian girl of fifteen, who knows nothing of her duties
in bed. But he'll succeed. Give him time."
"I think tonight is an omen. Allah is not pleased when you allow open
heresies to flourish."
Arangbar was watching a dancer who had approached the dais to begin a
suggestive _nautch _dance for him. It seemed to Hawksworth that they
were already well acquainted, for she smiled at him knowingly, avoiding
the queen's glance.
"I care nothing for heresies." Arangbar turned back to Janahara. "I
only care for the honor of my reign."
"But a faith divided does you no honor."
"Then unite it if you care so much. I have other duties." Arangbar
turned again to watch the dancer. She had a large ring in one side of
her nose, and her eyes seemed to snap as she slapped her bare feet
against the carpeted floor. "I never knew she was so good." He turned
to Nadir Sharif. "Send her a small ruby and find out for me tomorrow
what her salary is. Whatever it is, I think she should have more."
"As you wish. Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed lightly and turned again to
watch the dancer.
Hawksworth studied the prime minister's face. It was grim, leaden.
It's everything Shirin said would happen. Prince Jadar has been
stripped of his lands, and the queen has been granted license to start
an inquisition.
You'd better get the _firman _signed, before the country starts coming
apart.
The doors of the hall burst open, and a crowd of women entered. They
carried a silver plate, on which was a folded silken sheet. They moved
quickly before the queen and performed the _teslim_. Then one held out
the plate.
The queen took the sheet and inspected it. Hawksworth watched her,
puzzling, then remembered that in Muslim society a bloodstained wedding
sheet is considered evidence, vital to the honor of both the families,
of the bride's virginity and the groom's virility. With a triumphant
smile, Janahara nodded and turned to exhibit the sheet to Arangbar.
There were light pink traces across the white silk.
"He's a man after all." Arangbar passed the sheet to Zainul Beg, who
beamed and passed it to Nadir Sharif. The prime minister smiled with
approval.
"He has earned his _jagirs_." Arangbar turned to Janahara. "Let it be
recorded. And now we feast."
More silver dishes of baked lamp appeared from inside the palace,
brought by eunuchs who inspected them carefully before handing them to
serving women. The music and dancing were exultant now and lasted until
the light of dawn showed. The drunken guests waited reverently until
Arangbar, who had gone to sleep, was carried from the hall on a
palanquin. Then they began to disperse.
Hawksworth reached Nadir Sharif's side as the prime minister was moving
out through the large, tapestry-adorned doorway.
"What really happened tonight?"
"What do you mean, Ambassador?"
"The transfer of _jagirs_. What will Jadar do?"
"Ambassador, that's a matter for the rulers of India to decide. It's
not your affair." Nadir Sharif did not look around. "Instead let me ask
you a question. When will your English fleet make landfall? They are
overdue, but there have been no further sightings. I'm beginning to
wonder if there really is a fleet."
"Perhaps the weather's been against them." Hawksworth tried to steady
himself on his feet. "After all, it was sighted by Jadar's men."
"Was it? Or did you and Prince Jadar deceive us all? If there's no
fleet. Ambassador, you're in very serious trouble. There will be no
_firman_. His Majesty is hardly a fool."
"He promised to sign the _firman _long before the sighting."
"You do not know him as I do. You have another week, perhaps two, and
then . . . Let me merely say you cannot drink the fleet into existence.
We are both going to have difficulty explaining this deception to His
Majesty. You met with the prince. I'm beginning to wonder now if you
both planned this. If you did, it was most unwise."
"Then wait two weeks and see." Hawksworth felt his palms grow moist.
"Two weeks is not so long a time."
"It is a very long time, Ambassador. Much is happening. You have made
many of the wrong friends. Good evening, Ambassador. I must speak to
Her Majesty." Nadir Sharif turned and was swallowed by the crowd.
As Hawksworth moved into the street, he saw that the front of the
palace was already bathed in morning light. And Agra was beginning to
come to life. He strolled for a time along the side of the Jamuna,
where burned-out candles still floated, and studied the outline of the
Red Fort against the morning sky.
What if there really is no fleet? What if it really was a trick by
Jadar, for some reason of his own? To destroy my mission? Has he
cozened us all?
Midmorning was approaching when he finally reached his lodge at the
rear of Nadir Sharifs estate. As he passed through the curtained
doorway, he saw Kamala waiting, her eyes dark. She was wearing none of
her jewels.
"Have you heard?" She took his turban and knelt to remove his _kamar-
band_.
"Heard what?"
"Do you know the Sufi Samad? And the Persian woman who was with him?"
Hawksworth examined her, wondering who else knew of his stay in
Fatehpur Sekri.
"Why do you ask?"
"If you do know them, it is no longer wise to admit it."
"Why?" Hawksworth felt his gut tighten. Suddenly Kamala's touch no
longer stirred him.
"The news is already spreading in Agra." She began removing his cloak,
pausing to smooth her hand across his chest. "They were arrested last
night, while the wedding was underway, in the bazaar this morning they
say he is sure to be condemned to death for heresy, and she for aiding
him. People think they will both be executed within the week."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Father Manoel Pinheiro's clean-shaven face was grim and his lips
set tightly against the brisk air as he pushed a path through the
crowded alley, headed toward the riverside palace of Nadir Sharif.
Around him large black cauldrons of frying bread filled the dawn with
the aroma of oil and spice. He had slipped from the mission house at
first light and, clasping his peaked black hat tightly over his
forehead, he had tried to melt inconspicuously among the rattling
bullock carts and noisy street vendors. Now he paused for breath and
watched as a large white cow licked the few grains of rice from the
begging bowl of a dozing leper. The image seemed to capture all the
despair of India, and he suddenly felt himself overwhelmed by the
enormity of the Church's
burden. Before he could move on, a crowd of chanting Hindus jostled him
against a wall as they poured into a small, garishly decorated temple
brimming with poly-colored heathen idols. On either side Hindu fakirs
sat listlessly, long white hair streaming down over their streaked
faces, their limpid eyes devoid of God's understanding. He shook his
head sadly as he made the sign of the cross over them, and found his
heart near bursting.
On every hand, he told himself, the fields are ripe unto harvest, the
flocks wanting a keeper. For every soul in this forgotten land we bring
to God and the Church, a hundred, nay a thousand, are born into eternal
darkness, damned forever. Our task is overwhelming, even with God's
help.
He thought of the Holy Church, the Society of Jesus, and their long
years of disappointment in India. But now, at last, it seemed their
hopes and prayers might be nearing fulfillment. After all the years of
humiliation and ignominy, there seemed a chance, a genuine chance, that
Arangbar, the Great Moghul himself, would at last consent to be
baptized into the Holy Church. After him, all of India would surely
soon follow.
Father Pinheiro crossed himself again, and prayed silently that God
would make him a worthy instrument of His will.
The burden of India was by now a Jesuit legend. It had been taken up
when the first mission came to the court of Akman over three decades
before. And even now the pagan fields of India remained, in many ways,
the greatest challenge of the Society of Jesus and the Holy Church.
India had, it was true, been held in the grip of Portuguese sea power
for many years before the first mission arrived in Agra. But Portuguese
arms and trade had not served the work of the Church. They had served
the greed of Portuguese merchants and the coffers of Portuguese
royalty. The lost souls of India were denied the Grace of the Holy
Church.
Then, in 1540, a priest named Ignatius Loyola, once a nobleman and a
soldier, founded the Society of Jesus, whose dual purpose was to defend
the Holy Church against the Protestant Reformation and begin preaching
the True Faith
to the pagan lands of Asia and the Americas. In 1542 the Society of
Jesus reached Portuguese Goa, on the very shores of India, in the
person of Francis Xavier, a close friend of Ignatius Loyola's from
student days at the University of Paris.
With Goa as base of operations, the society had immediately pushed
farther eastward, reaching Japan and Macao a few short years later.
Paradoxically, it was India itself that had initially eluded their
influence. Finally, in 1573, the Great Akman journeyed south and
encountered the members of the Society of Jesus for the first time. He
was awed by their learning and moral integrity, and soon thereafter he
posted an envoy to Goa requesting that a Jesuit mission be sent to his
court. Three Jesuit fathers traveled to Fatehpur Sekri.
The Jesuits' hopes soared when they were immediately invited to debate
the orthodox Islamic mullahs at Akman's court. The leader of the
mission, a soft-spoken Italian father with encyclopedic learning, knew
the Quran well in translation and easily refuted the mullahs'
absolutist arguments--to the obvious delight of Akman. It was only after
several months at Fatehpur Sekri that the three learned fathers began
to suspect that Akman's real purpose in inviting them was to have on
hand skilled debaters for entertainment.
Akman may have had scant patience with Islam, but it had grown obvious
he had no desire to become a Christian either. He was an intellectual
who amused himself by questioning the ideas and teachings of all
faiths, with the inevitable result that he always found something in
each to affront his own reason. He was, in fact, beginning to form the
notion that he himself was as great a leader as any of the spiritual
teachers he had heard about, and accordingly should simply declare
himself an object of worship. After a decade the three Jesuits finally
conceded their first mission was a failure and abjectly returned to
Goa.
Almost a decade later, in 1590, Akman again requested that Jesuit
fathers be sent to his court. Once more a mission was sent, and once
more its members eventually concluded Akman had no real intention of
encouraging Christianity in India. The second mission was also
abandoned.
There remained some, however, in Goa and in Rome, who believed the
Great Moghul Akman still could be converted. Furthermore, as the
Protestant countries began to venture into the Indies, the political
usefulness of having Portuguese priests near the ruler of India became
increasingly obvious. Thus, in 1595, a third mission was sent to
Akman's court. Father Pinheiro remembered well their instructions upon
departing Goa. They would convert Akman if they could; but equally
important now, they would ensure that Portuguese trading interests were
protected.
The Jesuit fathers drew close to Akman, became valued advisers, and
found themselves being consulted on questions ranging from whether
Jesus was the Son of God or merely a Prophet, to the advisability of
smoking tobacco. Still, the only lasting achievement of the mission was
to extract from Akman a _firman _granting Jesuits the right to free
exercise of the Catholic religion. They wanted his soul, and through it
the soul of India, but the most they ever attained was his protection.
He died a royal skeptic, but a sovereign whose religious tolerance
shocked the dogmatic sixteenth-century world.
Father Pinheiro paused to study the outline of the Red Fort against the
morning sky and listened to the _azan _call to Islamic prayer sounding
from a nearby mosque. He smiled to think that the schism between the
rule of Arangbar and the rule of Islam might soon be complete. Like
Akman, Arangbar had never bothered to hide his distaste for the mullahs
who flooded his court. He collected Italian paintings of the Virgin for
his palace, even scandalizing the mullahs by hanging one in the _Diwan-
i-Am_, and whenever one of the Jesuit fathers journeyed to Goa, there
was always a request for more Christian art. True the Moghul's
understanding of blasphemy was erratic, as evidenced by a recent
evening in the _Diwan-i-Khas _when, drunk and roaring with laughter,
Arangbar had set a wager with the Jesuits on how long he could stand
with his arms outstretched as a cross. But then he had built a church
for the mission, and also provided them a house, which he now visited
ever more frequently to secretly indulge his passion for forbidden
pork.
A scant two months before, Arangbar had taken an action that sent the
mission's hopes soaring. He had summoned the Jesuit fathers to baptize
two of his young nephews, ordering the boys to become Christians. The
mullahs had been outraged, immediately spreading the pernicious rumor
he had done so merely to better remove them from the line of
succession. In Goa, however, the mission was roundly congratulated on
nearing its goal. If Arangbar became a Christian, many in his court and
perhaps eventually all of India would someday follow.
This had all been before the arrival of the English heretic,
Hawksworth. At the very moment when Arangbar's mind seemed within their
grasp, there had now emerged the specter that all their work might be
undone. Arangbar had treated the Englishman as though he were qualified
to speak on theological matters and had even questioned him about the
most Holy Sacrament, when the Church's doctrine regarding this Mystery
had already been fully expounded to him by Father Sarmento himself.
Arangbar had listened with seeming interest while the Englishman
proceeded to tell him much that was contrary to the Truth and to Church
teaching. When asked point blank, the Englishman had even denied that
His Holiness, the pope, should be acknowledged head of the Universal
Church, going on to characterize His Holiness' political concerns in
almost scatological terms. Father Sarmento, normally the most
forbearing of priests, was nearing despair.
Most disturbing of all, Arangbar had only last week asked the
Englishman by what means the Portuguese fortress at the northern port
of Diu could be recaptured by India. The Englishman had confided that
he believed a blockade by a dozen English frigates, supported by an
Indian land army of no more than twenty thousand, could force the
Portuguese garrison to capitulate from hunger!
Clearly Arangbar was growing eccentric. The English heretic had
beguiled him and was near to becoming a serious detriment to Portuguese
interests. To make matters worse, there was the latest dispatch from
Goa, which had arrived only the previous evening. Father Pinheiro had
studied it well into the night, and finally concluded that the time had
come to stop the Englishman. He also concluded it was time to make this
unmistakably clear to Nadir Sharif. As the situation continued to
deteriorate, only the influence of Nadir Sharif could still neutralize
the Englishman.
Father Pinheiro moved on through the jostling street, occasionally
swabbing his brow. And as he looked about him, he began to dream of the
day there would be a Christian India. It would be the society's
greatest triumph. What would it be like? What would Arangbar do to
silence the heretical mullahs? Would the time come when India, like
Europe, would require an Inquisition to purify the sovereignty of the
Church?
One thing was certain. With a Catholic monarch in India, there would be
no further English trade, no Dutch trade, no Protestant trade. The
declining fortunes of Portuguese commerce at Goa, the Protestant
challenge to Portuguese supremacy in the Indies, would both be
permanently reversed in a single stroke.
The thought heartened him as he looked up to see the sandstone turrets
of Nadir Sharif's palace gleaming in the morning sun.
"Father, it is always a pleasure to see you." Nadir Sharif bowed
lightly and indicated a bolster. He did not order refreshments from the
servants. "No matter what the hour."
"I realize the time is early. I wanted to find you at home. And to come
here when there were the fewest possible eyes on the street." Pinheiro
paused and then decided to sit. He was perspiring heavily from the
walk, even though the real heat of the day lay hours ahead.
Nadir Sharif flinched at the Jesuit's school-book Persian and examined
him with ill-concealed disdain, knowing word of his visit surely had
already found the ears of the queen.
"Then I should ask the occasion for this unexpected pleasure." Nadir
Sharif seated himself and discreetly examined the Jesuit's soiled black
habit.
"The English trading fleet, Excellency. The news is most disturbing. I
received a pigeon last evening from His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes.
The armada he dispatched along the coast to sweep for the English fleet
returned three days ago, finding nothing. The English may have eluded
us. He has now ordered the armada to sail north from Goa, into the bay,
but by now the English fleet could be nearing Surat, or perhaps they
have veered north to the port of Cambay. His Excellency fears that they
may possibly escape our patrols entirely and make landfall. He has
asked me to inform you privately that the _firman _for English trade
must be delayed at all costs, until the English fleet can be sighted
and engaged."
"I have made every effort. The Viceroy knows that." Nadir Sharif
casually adjusted the jewel on his turban. "It has been stopped so
far."
"But if the fleet lands? And if the heretic English king has sent new
gifts for His Majesty?" Pinheiro tried to maintain his dignity as he
nervously wiped his face with the black fold of a sleeve.
"If the English do make landfall, and dispatch more gifts for His
Majesty, I fear no power in Agra can stop him from signing the
_firman_.'' Nadir Sharifs face assumed an expression of conciliatory
resignation. "The English will undoubtedly make the trading _firman_ a
condition of further presents."
"You know that is unacceptable, Excellency." Pinheiro's eyes narrowed.
"The mission cannot allow it. You know that as well as I."
"Forgive me, but I've always understood your mission here was not to
concern itself with trade."
"The Holy Church is not engaged in trade, Excellency. But our position
here is dependent, as you are well aware, on the fortunes of Goa. The
two are entwined, as are all secular and spiritual aspects of life.
Whatever disturbs one must inevitably affect the other. It cannot be
otherwise."
"Obviously." Nadir Sharif stroked the tip of his moustache a moment in
thought. "So what would you have me do? The English _feringhi _cannot
be harmed. He drinks every evening with His Majesty."
"There are other ways to negate the heretic's influence. Perhaps the
Englishman's . . . situation with His Majesty can be rendered less
intimate. Perhaps he could be removed from favor. If only for a time."
"So you have come to ask me to work miracles for you, when you do
nothing for yourself." Nadir Sharif rose and strolled to a latticework
window. He studied the garden for a moment, then spoke without turning.
"Have you advised His Majesty in explicit terms of the Viceroy's
displeasure with the English intrusion into our . . . into Portuguese
waters?"
"It has been made known. Many times."
"But have you suggested the consequences?" Nadir Sharif turned and
gazed past Pinheiro, his eyes playing on the scalloped marble arch of
the entryway.
"The consequences are obvious. The warships at Goa are capable of
terminating all trade in the Indian Ocean if His Excellency so
pleases."
"Then you should merely engage the English." Nadir Sharif consciously
deleted the irony from his voice.
"That is an entirely separate matter. The English frigates are of a new
design, very swift. They may possibly have eluded us for a time."
Pinheiro's voice hardened. "But do not doubt our galleons are swifter
than any of the trading vessels of His Majesty's fleet. India's own Red
Sea trade continues only at the Viceroy's discretion."
"That is true enough. But are you prepared to demonstrate your . . .
displeasure." Nadir Sharif revolved back to the window. "I do not think
His Majesty actually believes the Viceroy would ever take hostile
action."
"What are you suggesting?" Pinheiro's voice betrayed momentary
disbelief.
"Nothing that you have not already brought to His Majesty's attention.
But possibly he does not believe you have the conviction, or the
strength, to carry it through. The English _feringhi _constantly brags
to him of English superiority at sea, hinting that his king will soon
drive Portugal from the Indian Ocean. I've heard it so often myself I
confess I'm near to believing him too."
"I can assure you that the protection, and control, of India's ports
will always remain in Portuguese hands."
"Then you would still have me believe you have the power to impound
Indian shipping, even a vessel owned by His Majesty, thereby exposing
the English as helpless to prevent it?" Nadir Sharif seemed absorbed in
the garden, his hands clasped easily behind him in perfect repose.
"Of course." Pinheiro stood dazed at the implications of Nadir Sharifs
words. He paused for a moment, digesting them. "Do I understand you to
be suggesting the Viceroy take hostile action against one of His
Majesty's own trading ships?"
"You have contested the Englishman with words, and he seems to be
winning." Nadir Sharif turned and examined Pinheiro. "Your Viceroy is
undoubtedly aware that Her Majesty, Queen Janahara, is equally
disturbed by the Englishman. She too is concerned with the possible
effects on her . . . trading arrangements if the English gain undue
influence."
"Would she be willing to speak to His Majesty?"
"Again you talk merely of words. What have they gained you?"
"Father Sarmento would never consent to an overt action. He would be
too fearful of the possible consequences to the mission."
"Bold measures are for bold men. I think His Excellency, Miguel
Vaijantes, understands boldness. And His Majesty understands boldness
better than anyone." Nadir Sharif paused. "It may be of interest to His
Excellency to know that His Majesty currently has a vessel en route
from the Red Sea, with cargo owned by the mother of His Majesty, the
dowager Maryam Zamani. It is due to make landfall within the week, if
it has managed to hold its schedule. The vessel's safety is, quite
naturally, of utmost concern to His Majesty . . ."
"I think I understand." Father Pinheiro again swabbed the moisture from
his brow. "But Father Sarmento . . ."
"What possible concern could Father Sarmento have with decisions made
by His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes? He is the Viceroy." Nadir Sharif
nodded toward a pudgy eunuch hovering at the doorway, who immediately
entered with a tray of betel leaves, signaling that the meeting was
adjourned.
"His Excellency will undoubtedly be most appreciative of your
thoughts." Pinheiro paused. "Still, wouldn't it be prudent to advise
Her Majesty, lest she mistake our Viceroy's intentions?"
"I will attend to it." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "You must be aware,
however, that if His Majesty chooses to respond irresponsibly, I will
know nothing about any action that may be taken. The Viceroy must
weather his own seas."
"Naturally." Pinheiro bowed. "You have always been a friend. I thank
you, and bless you in God's name."
"Your thanks are sufficient." Nadir Sharif smiled again and watched as
the Jesuit was led through the scalloped doorway by the waiting eunuch.
Only when he turned back to the window did he realize his palms were
drenched with perspiration.
Arangbar moved groggily through the arched corridor carrying a fresh
silver cup of wine and quietly humming the motif of his favorite
Hindustani raga. His afternoon nap in the _zenana _had been fitful,
unusually so, and when he finally admitted to himself why, he had
dismissed the two young women who waited to pleasure him, retrieved his
jeweled turban, and waved aside the attending eunuchs. He had announced
he wanted to stroll among the fruit trees in the courtyard of the
Anguri Bagh, which lay down the marble steps from the Khas Mahal, the
breezy upper pavilion of the _zenana_. But when he reached the trees,
he had turned and slipped through his private doorway leading to the
women's apartments in the lower level of the fort.
The _zenana _was quiet, even the eunuchs were dozing, and no one
noticed when he passed along the shadowed afternoon corridor toward the
circular staircase leading to the lower apartments. As he began to
descend the curved stone steps, he felt his legs momentarily grow
unsteady, and he paused to rest against the hard polished wall,
tightening his light brocade cloak against the cooler air and taking a
short sip of wine for warmth. Then he continued on, carefully feeling
for each step in the dim light of the overhead oil lamps.
He emerged on the next level and stopped to catch his breath on the
balcony that opened out over the Jamuna. This was the level where he
had built private apartments for his favorite women, and behind him was
the large room, with a painted cupola ceiling high above a large rose-
shaped marble fountain, which he had granted to one of his Hindu wives.
(Now he could no longer recall precisely who she was; she had reached
thirty some time past and he had not summoned her to his couch in many
years.) Since she was a devout Hindu, he had ordered it decorated with
brilliantly colored scenes from the Ramayana. The room itself was
cooled by a high waterfall in the rear that murmured down an inclined
and striated marble slab. Stairways on either side of the room curved
around to an overhead balcony, directly above where he now stood, which
was the post where eunuchs waited when the women came to cool
themselves by the fountain.
The balcony where he now stood jutted out from the fort, supported by
thick sandstone columns, and from his position he could look along the
side of the fort and see the Jasmine Tower of Queen Janahara. When he
realized he also could be seen, he instinctively stepped back into the
cool corridor.
The women were inside their apartments, asleep, and the corridor empty
as he began to descend the circular stairs leading to the next level
below, the quarters for eunuchs and female servants. As he rounded the
last curve of the stair and emerged into the light, three eunuchs
stared up in shock from their game of cards. It vaguely registered that
they probably were gambling, which he had strictly prohibited in the
_zenana_, but he decided to ignore it this afternoon.
The circular pasteboard cards of the eunuchs' scattered across the
stone floor as they hurried to _teslim_. He paused to
drink again from the cup and absently studied the painted faces on the
cards dropped by the eunuch nearest him. It was not a bad hand. Lying
on the marble were four high cards from the _bishbar_, powerful, suits--
the lord of horses, the king of elephants, the king of infantry, and
the throned _wazir _of the fort--and three from the _kambar_, weaker,
suits--the king of snakes, the king of divinities, and the throned
queen. He stared for a moment at the king of elephants, the suit he
always preferred to play, and wondered at the happenstance that the
king had fallen beneath the queen, whose face covered his golden crown.
He shrugged it away as coincidence and turned toward the stairs leading
to the next lower level.
Two more levels remained.
The air was increasingly musty now, noticeably smoky from the lamps,
and he hurried on, reaching the next landing without stopping. The
windows on this level had shrunk to only a few hand spans, and now they
were secured with heavy stone latticework. The eunuchs were arguing at
the other end of the corridor and failed even to notice him. He told
himself to try to remember this, and drank again as he paused to listen
to the metrical splash of the Jamuna lapping against the outer wall.
Then he stepped quietly down the last flight of stairs.
The final level. As he emerged into the corridor, two guarding eunuchs
who had been dozing leaped to their feet and drew swords before
recognizing him. Both fell on their face in _teslim_, their turbans
tumbling across the stone floor.
Arangbar said nothing, merely pointed toward a doorway at the end of
the corridor. The startled eunuchs strained against their fat as they
lifted torches from the walls and then turned officiously to lead the
way. As they walked, Arangbar paused to stare through an arched doorway
leading into a large domed room off the side of the hall. A dozen
eunuchs were inside, some holding torches while others laced a white
cotton rope through a wooden pulley attached to the lower side of a
heavy wooden beam that spanned the room, approximately ten feet above
the floor.
The two eunuchs with Arangbar also stopped, wondering
if His Majesty had come to supervise the hanging that afternoon of the
two _zenana _women who had been discovered in a flagrant sexual act in
the Shish Mahal, the mirrored _zenana _baths.
Arangbar studied the hanging room for a moment with glazed eyes, not
remembering that he had sentenced the women that same morning, and then
waved the guards on along the corridor, past the doors that secured
dark cells. These were the cells used to confine women who had broken
_zenana _regulations.
At the end of the corridor was a door wider than the others, and behind
it was a special cell, with a window overlooking the Jamuna. He walked
directly to the door and drank again from his cup as he ordered it
opened. The guards were there at once, keys jangling. The door was
massive and thick, and it creaked heavily on its hinges as they pushed
it slowly inward.
From the gloom came the unmistakable fragrance of musk and sandalwood.
He inhaled it for a moment and it seemed to penetrate his memory,
calling up long forgotten pleasures. Grasping the door for support, he
moved past the bowing guards and into the cell. There, standing by the
small barred window, her face caught in a shaft of afternoon sun, was
Shirin.
Her eyes were carefully darkened with kohl and her mouth red and fresh.
She wore a gossamer scarf decorated with gold thread, and a thin skirt
that betrayed the curve of her thighs against the outline of her
flowered trousers. The musty air of the room was immersed in her
perfume, as though by her very being she would defy the walls of her
prison. She looked just as he had remembered.
She turned and stared at him for a moment, seeming not to believe what
she saw. Then her eyes hardened.
"Shall I _teslim _before my sentence?"
Arangbar said nothing as he examined her wordlessly, sipping slowly
from his almost-empty cup. Now more than ever he realized why she had
once been his favorite. She could bring him to ecstasy, and then recite
Persian poetry to him for hours. She had been exquisite.
"You're as beautiful as ever. Too beautiful. What do you expect me to
do with you?"
"I expect that I will die, Your Majesty. That, I think, is the usual
sentence for the women who disobey you."
"You could have stayed in Surat, where you were sent. Or gone on to Goa
with the husband I gave you. But instead you returned here. Why?"
Arangbar eased himself onto the stone bench beside the door.
"I don't think you would understand, Majesty."
"Did you come because of the Inglish _feringhi?_ I learned yesterday
that you conspired to meet with him. It displeased me very much."
"He was not responsible, Majesty. I met with him because I chose to.
But I came to Agra to be with Samad again." Her voice began to tremble
slightly. "Samad is guilty of nothing, except defiance of the Shi'ite
mullahs. You know that as well as I. If you want to hear me beg for
him, I will."
Arangbar seemed not to notice the tear that stained the kohl beneath
one eye. "It was a death sentence for you to disobey me and come back.
Perhaps you actually want to die."
"Is there nothing you would die for, Majesty?"
Arangbar stared for a moment at the window, its hexagonal grillwork
throwing a pattern across his glazed eyes. He seemed to be searching
for words. "Yes, perhaps I might die for India. Perhaps someday soon I
will. But I would never die for the glory of Islam." His gaze came back
to Shirin. "And certainly not for some half-naked Sufi mullah."
"Samad is not a mullah." By force of will she held any trace of
shrillness from her voice. "He is a Persian poet. One of the greatest
ever. You know that. He defies the Shi'ites because he will not bow to
their dogma."
"The Shi'ites want his head." Arangbar examined his empty cup and
tossed it to the floor, listening as the silver rang hard against the
stone. "It seems a small price for tranquility."
"Whose tranquility? Theirs?" The tears were gone now, her eyes again
defiant.
"Mine. Every day I'm flooded with petitions about this or that heresy.
It wearies and consumes me. Samad ignored the laws of Islam, and he has
followers."
" You ignore the laws of Islam."
Arangbar laughed. "It's true. Between us, I despise the mullahs. You
know I once told them I had decided to become a Christian, because I
enjoyed eating pork and the Prophet denied it to all men. The next day
they brought the Quran and declared although it was true pork was
denied to men, the Prophet said nothing specifically about what a king
could eat. So there was no need for me to become a Christian." He
paused and sobered. "But Samad is not a king. He is a well-known Sufi.
The mullahs claim that if he's dead, the inspiration for heresy will
die with him. They say his death will serve as an example. I hear this
everywhere, even from Her Majesty."
"Her Majesty?" Shirin searched for his eyes as she spoke, but they were
shrouded in shadow. "Does she make laws for you now?"
"She disrupts my tranquility with all her talk about Islam and
Shi'ites. Perhaps it's age. She never used to talk about the Shi'ites.
But now she wants to bring the Islam of Persia to India. She forbade
Sunni mullahs even to attend the wedding. But if it pleases her, what
does it matter? I despise them all."
"But why Samad? Why sentence him to death?"
"Frankly I don't really care about this poet, either way. But he has
not tried to help himself. When I allowed him to confront the mullahs
who accused him, he refused to recite the Kalima, 'There is no God but
Allah.'"
"What did he say?"
"Perhaps just to spite them, he would only recite the first phrase,
'There is no God,' the negation. He refused to recite the rest, the
affirmation. He said he was still searching for truth. That when he
finally saw God he would recite the remainder; that to affirm His
existence without proof would be giving false evidence. I thought the
mullahs would strangle him on the spot." Arangbar laughed to himself as
he watched her turn again to the window. "You have to admit that
qualifies as blasphemy, by any measure. So if the mullahs want him so
badly, why not let them have him?"
"But Samad is a mystic, a pantheist." Shirin returned her eyes to
Arangbar. "For him God is everywhere, not just where the mullahs choose
to put Him. Do you remember those quatrains in his Rubaiyat that say,
_"Here in the garden the sunshine glows,
A Presence moves in all that grows.
He is the lover, the belov'd too.
He is the bramble and the rose.
We know Him when our hearts are moved;
He, our lover and our loved.
Open your eyes with joy and see
The hundred ways His love is proved."
_
"I've seen his poetry. It sings of the love of some God, although his
God sounds a bit too benign to be Allah. But I also know his Rubaiyat
will not save him. It may make him immortal someday, but he'll be long
since dead by then."
Arangbar rose unsteadily and moved beside her, staring out onto the
glinting surface of the Jamuna. For a moment he watched a fleet of
barges pass, piled high with dark bundles of indigo. "I believe I
myself will die someday soon. I can almost feel my strength ebbing. But
I hope I'll be remembered as my father Akman is, a ruler who tolerated
all faiths. I've protected Hindus from the bigoted followers of
Mohammed's religion, who would convert them forcibly to Islam, and I've
allowed all religions to build places of worship. Did you know I've
even built a church for the Portuguese Jesuits, who have to buy most of
their converts with bribes? I even gave them a stipend, since they
would starve otherwise. They tell me they're astonished I allow so much
religious freedom here, since it's unheard of in Europe. But I can do
all this only if I remain the nominal defender of Islam. Islam holds
the power in India, and as India's ruler I must acknowledge that. I can
defy the mullahs myself now and then. But I can't permit your Sufi
mystic to do it too. There's a limit."
"You can do anything. If you wish. The orthodox mullahs have always
hated mystics. The Shi'ite mullahs are men who live on hate. You see it
burning in their eyes. They even hate their own women, can't you see?
They keep them prisoner, claiming that's the way they honor and respect
them. The mullahs even resent that Samad allows me to come into his
presence without a veil."
"They say he's a poison in Islam."
"Yes, his example is poison. His poetry is filled with love. The
mullahs cannot bear it, since their own lives are filled with hate. God
help India if it ever becomes an 'Islamic' state. There'll be mobs in
the streets murdering Hindus in the name of 'God.' Is that the
tranquility you want?"
"I want to die in peace. Just like your poet. And I want to be
remembered, for the good I've done for India." Arangbar paused, seeming
to search on the stone ledge for his cup. "I think Samad will be
remembered too. Tomorrow I'll make him famous. Let him live on through
his words. He knows, and I know, that he must die. We understand each
other perfectly. I can't disappoint him now."
Arangbar suddenly recalled the high-ranking Rajput raja who had asked
for an early audience in the _Diwan-i-Khas_, and he turned and moved
unsteadily toward the door. When he reached it, he revolved and looked
back sadly at Shirin.
"I found myself dreaming about you this afternoon. I don't know why. So
I decided to come and see you, alone. I didn't come to talk about
Samad. It's you I'm uncertain about. Her Majesty wants you hanged. But
I cannot yet find the courage to sentence you." Arangbar continued on
wearily toward the door. "Where will it all end?" He paused and, as
though remembering something, turned again. "Jadar is plotting
something against me, I sense it. But I don't know what he can do.
Recently I've heard rumors you're part of it. Have you turned against
me?"
"If you kill Samad, I will defy you with every power I have."
"Then perhaps I should execute you." He stared at her, trying to focus.
"But you have no powers left. Unless you're plotting something with the
Inglish. If you are, then I will kill you both." He turned to leave,
tightening his cloak against the chill. The guards saw him emerge and
hurried from the far end of the corridor. Arangbar watched them for a
moment, then turned and looked one last time at Shirin. "Samad will die
tomorrow. You will have to wait."
Brian Hawksworth's lean frame towered above the crowd, conspicuous in
jerkin and seaboots. He had heard the rumor and he had come to the
plaza to watch, mingling among the turbaned assembly of nobles,
shopkeepers, mullahs, and assorted street touts. His presence was
immediately noted by all, especially the crippled beggars in dirty
brown _dhotis_, who dragged themselves through the crowd, their
leprosy-withered hands upturned, calling for a _pice_ in the name of
Allah. They knew from experience that, however ragged a _feringhi
_might appear, he was always more likely to be moved by their plight
than a wealthy Indian merchant.
The plaza was a confined area between the steep eastern side of the Red
Fort and the outer wall of the fortress. Beyond the fortress wall lay
the wide Jamuna River, while high above, and with a commanding view of
the plaza, sat Arangbar, watching from the black throne at the outer
edge of the _Diwan-i-Khas_. Next to him sat Queen Janahara and
Allaudin. The day was Tuesday and the sun was approaching midday. As
Hawksworth pushed his way to the front of the crowd, the last elephant
fight of the morning had just begun.
Two First-ranked bull elephants were locked head to head in the dusty
square. Their blunted tusks were wreathed with brass rings, and the
back of each was covered with a brocaded canvas on which sat two
riders. Perched on each animal's neck and directing it was its mahout,
and on its rump sat its Second-ranked keeper, whose assignment was to
urge the animal to greater frenzy.
The dusty air was alive with a festive clanging from large bells
attached to each elephant's harness. Hawksworth noticed that a long
chain, called the _lor langar_, was secured to the left foreleg of each
elephant and circled over its back, where it was attached to a heavy
log held by the second rider. Both elephants also had other keepers who
ran alongside holding long poles, at the end of which was crossed a
foot- long piece of paper-covered bamboo. Nearby another keeper stood
holding a smoldering taper.
Hawksworth watched in awe as the elephants backed away and lunged
together again and again, tusk resounding against tusk, often rearing
on their hind legs as each strained for advantage.
"Do you have a favorite, _feringhi _Sahib?" A brown-skinned man with a
slightly soiled turban was tugging at Hawksworth's sleeve. "There is
still time to wager."
"No thanks." Hawksworth moved to brush him aside.
"But it is our habit in India to wager on the elephants, Sahib. Perhaps
the Sahib does not yet know Indian customs?" He pushed closer, directly
in Hawksworth's face. His few remaining teeth were stained red with
betel. "I myself am a poor judge of elephants, l can never guess which
will win. Still I love to wager. May Allah forgive me."
"I'm not here to bet."
"Just this once, Sahib. For my weakness." He turned and pointed through
the dust. "Although the dark elephant is smaller and already growing
tired, I will even offer to bet on him to give you, a guest in India, a
chance to win. So when you return to your _feringhistan _someday, you
will say there is one honest man in India. I will wager you ten rupees
the dark one will be declared the winner." The man backed away for an
instant and discreetly assessed Hawksworth's worn jerkin with a quick
glance. "If ten rupees are too much, I will wager you five."
Hawksworth studied the two elephants again. The dark one was slightly
smaller, and did seem to be growing tired. The other elephant, larger
and brown, had a mahout less skilled but he also clearly was gaining
the advantage.
"All right. I'll take the brown." Hawksworth reached for his purse,
feeling slightly relieved that it was still there. "And I'll lay twenty
rupees."
"As pleases the Sahib." The man smiled broadly. "The Sahib must be a
very rich man in his _feringhistan_."
Even as he spoke, the large brown elephant wheeled and
slammed its black adversary in the side with its tusks, barely missing
the leg of the mahout. The black elephant staggered backward, against
the side of the fort. It was now clearly on the defensive, as the
larger elephant began slamming it repeatedly in the side.
Hawksworth found himself caught up in the taste of imminent victory.
"Charkhi! Charkhi!" A cry began to rise from the crowd. The man holding
the burning taper looked up toward Arangbar, who signaled lightly with
his hand. Then the men holding the long poles tipped them toward the
taper, and the two ends of papered bamboo were quickly ignited.
The bamboo sticks started to whirl like pinwheels, popping and throwing
sparks from the gunpowder packed inside. The keepers turned and thrust
the poles under the face of the brown elephant, sending him rearing
backward in fright.
Although the black elephant now lay crushed against the wall, the brown
was too distracted by the sudden noise to press his advantage. Instead
he wheeled away from the exploding bamboo and began to charge wildly
toward the edge of the crowd. Retreating bodies pummeled about
Hawksworth, and there were frightened calls of "_lor langar_." As the
elephant neared the crowd, its second rider, with a look of infinite
regret, threw down the log chained to its forefoot. The chain whipped
against its leg, and in moments it was tangled and stumbling.
By then the smaller black elephant had recovered its feet and came
galloping in chase. In moments he was there, slamming his larger
adversary with his tusks. The brown elephant stumbled awkwardly,
tangled in the chain, and then collapsed into the dust. With a victory
yell the mahout of the black elephant pulled a cord releasing a canvas
cloth over its eyes. The heaving animal immediately began to gentle,
and its jubilant keepers ran forward to lead it away.
"Your elephant lost, Sahib. My regrettings. May I have the twenty
rupees?"
"But it was fixed!" Hawksworth held tightly to his purse.
"The brown was clearly winning before he was frightened by the damned
fireworks."
"Did I neglect to tell the Sahib that the black elephant is a _khasa_,
from His Majesty's private stable? His Majesty does not like to see his
elephants lose."
"You conniving bastard."
"His Majesty makes the rules. Sahib. It is permitted to use the
_charkhi _fireworks once during a contest, if His Majesty judges that
the elephants need to be disciplined. May Allah grant you better luck
next week." The man stood waiting, hand outstretched.
"You're a damned thief."
"That is a harsh judgment. Sahib. I am merely a poor man who must live.
If you wait, you will see what happens to criminals here."
With a sigh of resignation Hawksworth began to count out the twenty
silver rupees, trying to look as sporting as he could muster. He found
himself in grudging admiration of the swindler's style. Then he
suddenly realized what the man had said.
The rumors must have been right.
"You mean there'll be an execution?"
"This is the day. His Majesty always has executions on Tuesday, after
the elephant fights."
Hawksworth looked up to see another bull elephant being ridden into the
plaza. He had sharpened tusks, each decorated with a single heavy brass
ring, and was guided by a single rider, a fierce-looking, unshaven
mahout. The elephant was festooned with bells, but there were no chains
about any of its legs.
At the other end of the square a balding man, with a short black beard
and a ragged green cloak, was being dragged forward by Imperial guards.
Hawksworth noticed that his arms had been bound behind him, by a heavy
cord circled just above the elbows. His eyes brimmed with fear.
The guards shoved him struggling toward the middle of the plaza. When
they reached the central clearing, the officer of the guard knocked him
to his knees with the butt end of a lance. The stunned prisoner turned
to watch in terror as the elephant lumbered toward him, flapping its
ears in anticipation.
"He was sentenced yesterday, Sahib."
"What did he do? Steal some nobleman's sheep? In England that's a
hanging offense."
"Oh no, Sahib, Islamic law does not give the death penalty for theft,
unless a thief is notorious. And even then he must be caught in the
act. If it is proved you have stolen something worth more than a
certain amount, then the sentence is to have your right hand cut off.
But for that to happen there must either be two witnesses or the thief
must himself confess. Islamic law is not cruel; it is just."
"What's this man accused of then?"
"He was tried and found guilty under Islamic law of _qatlul-'amd_, a
willful murder. His name is Kaliyan, and he is a Hindu and the son of
Bijai Ganga Ram. He is accused of having kept a common Muslim woman as
his concubine, and when the woman's father discovered this and went to
reclaim her to restore his family's honor, this man murdered him and
buried him behind his house. He confessed the act yesterday morning
before His Majesty."
The elephant moved with calm deliberation toward the kneeling prisoner,
guided by the mahout, until it towered directly over the quivering man.
Suddenly it whipped its trunk about the man's torso and lifted him
squirming into the air, holding him firmly against its banded tusks. It
swung the screaming man back and forth in delight for a long moment,
seeming to relish the torment, then dashed him violently to the ground.
The prisoner hit on his back, gasping, and weakly tried to roll to his
feet. Before he could gain his footing, the elephant was there again,
seizing him once more with its leathery trunk and again slamming him to
the ground.
"The elephant will torment him for a time. Sahib. Before the moment of
death." The small brown man's eyes shone in anticipation.
Again the prisoner was lifted and again dashed to the ground. Now he no
longer attempted to struggle; he merely lay moaning in a broken voice.
Then the mahout shouted something to the elephant and the animal
suddenly reared above the man, crushing down on him with both front
feet. There was a final, rending scream and then silence, as blood
sprayed over the dust. The elephant reared again, and again mashed the
lifeless body. Then again. Finally the animal placed one foot on the
man's lower torso and seized his crushed chest with its trunk,
wrenching upward and rending the body in two. Maddened by the smell of
blood, he whipped the torn half upward and slammed it once more against
the hard earth. Finally the mahout tapped the blood-spattered elephant
with his _ankus_ and began guiding it toward the back of the square.
The crowd, which had held a spellbound silence, erupted into cheers.
"That's the most brutal death I've ever seen." Hawksworth found his
voice only after the initial shock had passed.
"It's why so few men dare to commit murder, Sahib. But His Majesty is
very just. All criminals are given a full Islamic trial before they are
executed."
Hawksworth looked up to see yet another man being led into the plaza.
The cheers of the crowd died abruptly. He wore only a loincloth, which
was pure white, and his hands were bound not behind him but in front,
secured through a large wooden clamp that had been locked together like
European stocks. Hawksworth took one look and felt his own groin
tighten.
"All praise to Allah the Merciful. And to the Holy Prophet, on whom be
peace," one of the white-bearded mullahs shouted through the silence.
He wore a gray turban, a dingy collarless shirt that reached to his
knees, and over that a long black vest. He carried a staff and was
barefoot. Other mullahs clustered around him immediately and joined his
call.
"Murder! Murder!" Another voice began to chant, from a young man
standing near Hawksworth. Then other young men with him took up the cry
and began to surge forward. They were fresh-faced, with clean white
shirts and trousers, and they awkwardly began to brandish short swords.
Imperial guards immediately threw a line across the crowd and held the
young men back with short pikes. While the crowd watched, the prisoner
continued to walk alone and unescorted toward the center of the square.
Hawksworth studied the face again, the deep sad eyes above a flowing
white beard, and there was no doubt. He turned to the man standing
beside him.
"Do you know who that is?"
"Of course, Sahib. He's the heretic poet Samad. Did you hear that he
denied the existence of Allah in an Islamic court? He has been
sentenced to death."
"Who are those men with the swords?"
"They're his disciples. I think they came today to try to save him."
Hawksworth turned to see the elephant again being urged forward.
"What about. . . what about the Persian woman I heard was arrested with
him?"
"I do not think she has been executed yet, Sahib. They say she will be
hanged, secretly, in the fort. Women are not executed by elephant."
"When . . ." Hawksworth struggled to contain his voice. "When do they
say she'll be hanged?"
"Perhaps in a week or two. Perhaps she is already dead." He moved
forward to watch. "What do poor Believers know of justice inside the
fort? But the heretic Samad will die for all to see, so there will be
no rumors that he still lives. Already there are stories in Agra that
he had escaped to Persia."
Samad had reached the center of the square. As the elephant approached,
he turned to the crowd of young men, raising his bound hands toward
them in a gesture of recognition.
"Do not grieve for this weak clay." His voice was sonorous, hypnotic,
and the crowd fell curiously quiet. "Grieve for yourselves, you who
must travel on a short while, sorrowing still."
The crowd erupted again, the mullahs and many others urging his death,
the young followers decrying it. Again he lifted his hands, and his
voice seemed to bring silence around it.
"I say to you do not grieve. You will all soon know far greater sorrow.
Soon death will lay his dark hand across the city of Agra, upon Muslim
and Hindu alike, upon woman and child. Many will perish without cause.
Therefore grieve not for me. Grieve for yourselves, when death will
descend upon your doorsteps, there to take the innocent. Sorrow for
your own."
The crowd had listened in hushed silence. Then a bearded mullah shouted
"Death to the heretic" and others took up the cry.
Samad watched the elephant quietly as it continued to lumber forward.
When it reached him, he bowed to it with an ironic smile. The mahout
looked upward toward the black throne of the _Diwan-i-Khas_, where
Arangbar and Janahara sat waiting. Arangbar turned to the queen, with
what seemed a question, and she replied without moving her stare from
the court below. Arangbar paused a moment, then signaled the mahout to
proceed. The bearded mahout saluted the Moghul, then urged the elephant
forward with his sharp _ankus_.
The elephant flapped its bloodstained ears in confusion but did not
move.
The mahout goaded it again and shouted something in its ear, but it
merely waved its trunk and trumpeted.
"Merciful Allah. The elephant does not smell his crime." The small man
caught Hawksworth's questioning look. "The Great Akman believed
elephants would not kill an innocent man, that they can always smell a
man's guilt. But I have never before seen one refuse to kill a
prisoner. I think Samad must be a wizard, who has entranced the
animal."
"Innocent," a young man from the group of disciples yelled out above
the silence.
The mahout goaded the elephant once more, but still it stood unmoving.
"Innocent." More cries went up from Samad's young followers, and again
they pressed forward, swords in hand. In moments the plaza became a
battleground, blood staining the earth as the Imperial guards began
turning their pikes against the line of disciples. Then others in the
crowd, mullahs leading them, broke through and joined the battle
against the young men. Sword rang against sword and calls to Allah rent
the air.
Samad stood quietly watching as the battle edged toward him. Then
suddenly a group of bearded mullahs broke from the crowd and surged
toward him, swords drawn. Hawksworth instinctively reached for his own
weapon, but the man beside him caught his arm. He looked down to see a
small, rust-handled _katar _pointed against his chest.
"This is the will of Allah. An infidel must not interfere."
The mullahs had formed a ring around Samad. He stood silently, waiting,
as the leader stepped forward and thrust a long sword into the bare
skin of his lower stomach. He jerked but did not fall, standing tall as
another swung a sharp blade across his open neck. His head dropped to
one side and he slumped forward, as two more men thrust swords into his
belly. In seconds he disappeared beneath a crowd of black cloaks.
From a low latticework window down the east side of the Red Fort, past
the Jasmine Tower and many levels down the Khas Mahal, it was just
possible to see the center of the plaza. A woman stood by the window
watching as the crowd turned on the young men and, one by one, cut them
down. Then she saw a bloodstained body being hoisted above a black-
cloaked assembly and carried triumphantly toward the river gate.
There had been tears as Shirin watched. But as she turned away, toward
the darkness of the cell, her eyes were hard and dry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hawksworth waited anxiously by the rear entryway of the _Diwan-
i-Khas _and watched the three Jesuits file silently through the
tapestried archway beside him. Father Alvarez Sarmento, imperious in
his freshly laundered black habit, moved directly to the silver railing
that circled the throne. The old priest's eyes seemed to fairly glow in
triumph. Behind him trailed Father Pinheiro and the pudgy father
Francisco da Silva, their attempts at poise marred by shifting, anxious
glances of disquiet. Hawksworth studied all three and puzzled even more
what could be afoot.
Over a week had passed since the death of Samad, and since that day he
had no longer been invited to Arangbar's evenings in the _Diwan-i-
Khas_. Even his requests for an audience had been ignored. Before the
poet's death, it had been possible for him to believe that the
absurdity of Samad and Shirin's arrest would eventually _Resolve_
itself, that the nightmare would fade into reality and bring their
release. But the killing of Samad had blotted out that illusion. When
he saw Arangbar, presiding high above the square, signal the Sufi's
death, he had realized finally the nightmare was all too real. Since
that time he had spent the sleepless nights alone, distraught, counting
the passage of each hour as he awaited news Shirin was also dead. In
his mind he had conceived a dozen stratagems to try to save her, a
dozen arguments, threats, bargains for her release, but nothing could
be done if he was denied even an audience with the Moghul.
That they should have tasted so much, only to lose it all. He found
himself aware, for the first time ever, how much he could want, could
need, a woman like Shirin beside him. With her, life itself seemed
renewed. She was like no other he had ever known: strong, beautiful,
self-willed. He had found himself admiring the last most of all, even
though he still found it startling. But the love he had known with her
in his arms now only made the despair deeper. Nothing was left. Now
there was only abiding sorrow, loss beyond healing. She had given him
something he had never known, something he realized--for the first time
ever--he no longer wanted to live without. He would have taken her place
a hundred times over, but even that seemed impossible.
Then, that morning, hope had appeared, almost a miracle., A sudden,
urgent message had been delivered, instructing him to appear once more
in the _Diwan-i-Khas_. It almost certainly meant Arangbar had received
word of the English fleet. If Shirin were still alive, and there had
been no news of her death, it must mean that the Moghul was uncertain
about her guilt: he was not a man who normally waited to act. And if
she was alive, all things again became possible . . .
He had asked himself again and again over the past week why he had
suddenly been forgotten by Arangbar. He finally concluded it was the
distracting turmoil that had gripped Agra and the court since Samad's
death.
The Sufi's last words had been repeated throughout the city, and
already there were rumors of impending calamity: the bazaars were alive
with talk of a Persian Safavid invasion from the northwest, a rebellion
among the Imperial guards, an impending holocaust that would burn all
Agra to ash, a universal plague. The streets had an apocalyptic air,
with omens foreseen in every temple.
Another reason for Arangbar's preoccupation could be the rumors from
the south. Word was sweeping Agra that Prince Jadar and his army had
been savaged by the Deccani forces and were now retreating northward,
with Malik Ambar in pursuit. If this story were true, then the
Abyssinian's defeat of Jadar must have been overwhelming, since rebels
did not normally pursue Moghul forces. But this story was still merely
rumor. There had been no actual reports of any engagements in the
south.
Jadar's possible defeat, so the talk in Agra went, had gone very
heavily with Arangbar, and accounted for his increasing dependence on
opium and wine. Those who had seen him reported the Moghul was growing
noticeably weaker. And as his strength waned, so too did his authority.
Ever since the night of the wedding, Queen Janahara had been moving to
assume more and more of the prerogatives of power. Arangbar already
seemed to be becoming a figurehead. The only sanctuary she had not yet
invaded was the _Diwan-i-Khas_.
Those evening gatherings Arangbar still ruled like a god, and the
unusual note he had sent to Hawksworth was worded almost more like an
order than an invitation. It confirmed vividly the reports that
Arangbar was growing more erratic by the day.
Around Hawksworth sat the usual assembly of Arangbar's closest
advisers, men whose perpetually smiling faces he had come to know well
over the past weeks. Prominent among them as always was Nadir Sharif,
who now seemed to be avoiding Hawksworth's glance. Also in attendance
was a special contingent of Rajput guards, in Imperial turbans and
tunics. Hawksworth could never remember having seen these particular
guards in the _Diwan-i-Khas _before.
When the last official had arrived, the Rajput guards moved across the
doorway and the kettledrum was sounded. Moments later the tapestry
behind the throne was pushed aside by two eunuchs and Arangbar emerged
into the light. He stumbled momentarily on the edge of a carpet, then
recovered his balance and took his seat on the white marble throne. His
dull eyes glistened against the lamplight as the men in the room
dropped to _teslim_. For the first time he seemed more annoyed than
amused when Hawksworth failed to bow to the carpet. He glared at him
for a long moment and then spoke to Nadir Sharif, who stood waiting by
his side. The prime minister turned to the room.
"Ambassador Hawksworth, His Majesty commands you to come forward."
It was abrupt language rarely heard in the _Diwan-i-Khas_, and the room
immediately fell silent. Hawksworth rose and tightened his belt,
feeling his apprehension rising. As he neared the throne, he found
himself seeing not Arangbar's expressionless gaze, but the face of
Shirin as she waited for help.
"Inglish, stand there." He pointed to the side of the throne opposite
the Jesuits. "Tell me, any fresh news of your king's fleet?"
Hawksworth felt his heart explode, realizing there was no arrival--and
no possibility of using King James's presents to bargain for Shirin. "I
expect it any day, Your Majesty. Possibly the winds have been against
them."
"The winds." Arangbar turned to Father Sarmento, his voice sarcastic.
"Do you think the winds have been against them, Padre?"
"Undoubtedly, Majesty." Sarmento could not suppress a
malicious smile. "The winds of truth. They have been arrested in a gale
of deception."
"I object, Your Majesty, to this Papist's innuendos." Hawksworth felt
himself suddenly bristle. "An Englishman does not accept insults from a
Portugal."
"You will listen quietly to what you are about to hear, Inglish, or you
will be removed by my guards." Arangbar again turned to Father
Sarmento. "Padre, repeat to the Inglish conspirator what you told me
this afternoon."
"May it please Your Majesty, not only is the English a heretic before
God and the Holy Church, he is also a liar." Sarmento paused with the
dramatic timing of a practiced orator. " There is no English fleet."
Hawksworth stared at the Jesuit in speechless dismay. His entire being
seemed to crash down about him as Sarmento continued.
"Because of the foresight of His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, Viceroy
of Goa, we have now uncovered the truth, Your Majesty. After his
patrols encountered no English merchantmen, either north or south, he
began to grow suspicious. He ordered his personal guards to find and
detain the man who claimed to have intercepted Jadar's cipher reporting
the fleet. The traitor was found, not surprisingly, in a Goan brothel,
where he had been for many days, spending more money than such a man
could normally earn in a lifetime. He was brought to the palace and
interrogated on the _strappado_." Sarmento turned triumphantly to
Hawksworth. "Where he readily admitted being paid to bring a false
report."
"And who do you believe paid him?"
"On that His Excellency is still uncertain, Your Majesty. He was paid
by agents in the south."
"But who does the Viceroy believe paid the money?"
"The coins were assayed and traced to the mint at Surat, Your Majesty.
They were part of a special minting that took place just before the
English, Hawksworth, left the city. The assay also revealed they were a
debased alloy, slightly lower in silver content than is normal,
although not enough to be readily detectable. Similar coins have begun
to be used throughout the Deccan. Reportedly they were given out
recently by Prince Jadar as back pay to the troops of certain
_mansabdars_.'"
"Who were the coins minted for?"
"The Shahbandar at Surat, Mirza Nuruddin, claims to have misplaced the
records for this particular minting. However, he maintains the lower
silver content was probably due to a minter's oversight. The former
governor of Surat, Mukarrab Khan, is returning to the city to
investigate. The minting run appears to have been approximately fifty
lakhs of rupees. But the actual silver content was only forty-nine
lakhs of rupees." He paused for breath. "The Shahbandar says he has no
idea what could have happened to the other lakh's worth of silver
bullion authorized to be used in the minting."
"That's not so difficult to explain, knowing Mirza Nuruddin." Arangbar
seemed to be talking to himself. Then he glanced again at Sarmento. "Of
course, the discrepancy would probably never have been detected if the
coins given to the traitor had not been melted down and assayed. The
question remains who ordered him paid?" Arangbar turned to Hawksworth,
who stood with his mind churning, refusing to accept the consequences
of what he was hearing. It meant the end of everything. "Perhaps the
Inglish ambassador can help explain it."
"I have no idea why there was a false report, Majesty. I believed it
too."
"Did you, Inglish?" Arangbar glared down drunkenly from his throne. "Or
did you plot this with Prince Jadar when you met with him in Burhanpur?
Did you and he conspire together to deceive me, exchanging bribes in
the pocket of the prince with some of this debased silver coin for his
help in a ruse you thought would produce a _firman _when brought to my
ears?"
"I gave nothing to the prince, Majesty. And I asked nothing from him.
That is the truth."
"The truth from you is not always easy to obtain, Inglish. Your
deceptions have distressed me very much. And, curiously enough. Her
Majesty even more. There is no fleet, Inglish. Instead there are lies,
by you and, I'm beginning to suspect now, by my own son. I no longer
have any idea what he is doing in the south. But I fear his arrogance
has brought ruin to his army. I am recalling him to Agra, immediately,
for an inquiry, and I am hereby ordering you to leave India."
Hawksworth noticed Nadir Sharif shoot a troubled glance toward the
Jesuits.
"May it please Your Majesty, neither I nor my king have had anything to
do with the reports of the fleet, whether true or false. There will be
other voyages and soon. My king has promised it, and he is a sovereign
who honors his word."
"Your Inglish king posts a conspirator and a traitor to my court. He
will never have a _firman _from my hand, no matter how many voyages he
may send."
"If there is indeed no fleet now, then I agree Your Majesty has been
deceived. But I have been also. We have both been used by those around
us, for purposes unknown. But my king would not knowingly play false
with Your Majesty. Nor would I. Those who would deceive you, whoever
they may be, sit much closer to Your Majesty's throne."
"It is not your place, Inglish, to tell me mine is a court of liars.
Your forgeries in India are ended. You will be gone from Agra within
the week, or I will not answer for your life. After that you no longer
may use the title of ambassador. You will be treated as the conspirator
you are. And as of this moment you are stripped of your title of khan."
He motioned to the Rajput guards. "Take him away."
Hawksworth turned to see Father Sarmento beaming.
"Alas it seems we soon must part, Ambassador. May God in His mercy
grant you a pleasant and speedy journey. Should you wish to travel
through Goa, I can give you a letter to His Excellency, Miguel
Vaijantes, requesting safe passage on a westbound galleon."
"Damn your Viceroy." As Hawksworth turned back toward Arangbar, he felt
rough hands close about his arms. Before he could speak, he was being
guided through the rear doorway and into the long gallery leading to
the public square.
"Majesty." Nadir Sharif watched the curtains close behind
Hawksworth, then rose and moved closer to the throne. "May it please
you, the Englishman unfortunately remains my guest. At least for a few
more days. As his host I feel a trifling obligation to see he finds his
way home safely. I ask leave to excuse myself for a few moments to
ensure he finds a palanquin."
"As you wish." Arangbar was watching a eunuch bring in a box of opium.
When Nadir Sharif moved toward the doorway, Father Pinheiro rose
unobtrusively and slipped out behind him. As the Jesuit moved into the
hallway, he appeared not to hurry, but his brisk walk brought him
alongside the prime minister midway down the corridor.
"Have you told Her Majesty, as we agreed?"
"Told her what?" Nadir Sharif did not break his pace or remove his eyes
from Hawksworth, still being led by the guards several yards ahead.
"About the ship that would be seized."
Nadir Sharif stopped as though hit by an arrow. "But surely you'll not
take the vessel now! Didn't you see that the Englishman has been
ordered out of Agra? He's finished. There'll certainly be no trading
_firman _for him now, or ever."
"But the warships were dispatched from Surat day before yesterday, just
before the pigeons arrived from Goa with the word of the hoax. His
Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes', message revoking their order to sail
arrived a day too late. They were already at sea. The Indian ship may
have already been seized."
Nadir Sharif inspected him with astonishment. "Your Viceroy must be
mad. To take the vessel now? There's no purpose in it. His Majesty will
be most annoyed."
"But you were the one who suggested it!" The Jesuit's voice rose,
quivering in dismay. "You said that bold measures were for bold men.
Those were your words. His Excellency agreed it would be a decisive
stroke of firmness."
"And what does Father Sarmento think of this folly?"
"Father Sarmento does not yet know. I thought it best not to inform
him." Pinheiro's eyes were despairing. "What did Her Majesty, Queen
Janahara, say about the plan?"
"What do you mean?"
"We agreed you would tell her."
"I've not forgotten our agreement. I've been watching carefully for the
right moment."
"She does not even know!" Pinheiro seized his arm and stared at him
incredulously. "But I told His Excellency you would-"
"I planned to tell her any day. The time was approaching. But now,
given what has happened . . ." Then he smiled and touched the Jesuit's
arm lightly. "But I think she can still bring reason to His Majesty. It
can all be readily explained as a misunderstanding."
"But you must tell her immediately." Pinheiro's shock was growing. "If
she hears of it before you've explained, she'll think --"
"Of course. But there's no reason yet for concern." Nadir Sharif smiled
again. "I assure you it all can be handled very routinely. But please
tell His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, not to do anything else this
ill-advised for at least a week. I can only excuse so much at one
time."
As Nadir Sharif turned to continue down the corridor, Pinheiro reached
out and seized his arm again. "You must also do one other thing. You
must make sure the Englishman is removed from Agra immediately. We both
know His Majesty may well forget by tomorrow that he has ordered him
gone."
"This time I doubt very much His Majesty will forget. It will only be a
matter of days, in any case." Nadir Sharif turned and smiled. "And
remember what I told you, that as far as His Majesty is concerned, I
know nothing about your Viceroy's impetuous act. But I do advise you to
inform Father Sarmento, before he hears it in open _durbar_."
"He'll be furious. He'll probably order me back to Goa."
"I doubt it. I'm sure he knows your value here." Nadir Sharif turned
without another word and hurried on down the corridor.
Ahead of him Hawksworth was being led by the guards through the marble
archways. As they reached the end, facing the doorway leading to the
courtyard stairs, he turned one last time and stared back, seeing Nadir
Sharif for the first time.
"What do you want now? My money or my life? Or both?"
"I merely came to see you safely home, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif waved
the guards back toward the _Diwan-i-Khas_, and they bowed with relief
as they turned to retreat. "And to offer my condolences."
"And no doubt to cozen me as well. I intend to find out who played me
false. Even if it's Jadar. Somebody has hell to pay."
"That would be most unwise, Ambassador. I'm afraid we were all a bit
too credulous. I readily confess even I had begun to believe your
story."
"It wasn't 'my story'! I knew nothing about . . ."
"But you never denied it, Ambassador. Surely you knew the truth all
along. The truth is always wisest. That's my cardinal rule in life."
"But it could have been true. It was entirely possible. Why didn't you
explain that to Arangbar? You're still supposed to be my agent."
"That would be rather difficult for His Majesty to believe, given what
really happened. But I do suppose it's possible." Nadir Sharif patted
Hawksworth's shoulder. "I'll see if there's anything I can do. But in
the meantime, I suggest you begin preparations to leave. His Majesty
was unusually disturbed tonight."
"He's disturbed over a lot of things, most of which have little to do
with me."
"If you mean the matter of the prince, I assure you it's alarming to us
all. No one is certain what has happened in the south. In fact, you
were one of the last men to see Prince Jadar. He seems almost to have
disappeared. All sorts of rumors are working their way to the court.
Where it will end no one can any longer even guess." Nadir Sharif
followed Hawksworth out into the open square of the _Diwan-i-Am_.
"Incidentally, Ambassador, did you yourself know anything about the
fifty lakhs of silver coin spoken of tonight?"
Hawksworth examined him a moment. "Maybe the Shahbandar stole it all."
"That's hardly an answer, Ambassador. It wasn't, by any chance,
traveling with you from Surat to Burhanpur? You know, His Majesty has
demanded a full investigation. I think he may just summon Mirza
Nuruddin to Agra for an explanation."
"Then let him ask Mirza Nuruddin what happened. I'm sure he'll get the
truth." Hawksworth turned toward the large gate at the far end of the
square.
"Very well, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "By the way, I
understand Mirza Nuruddin has suggested you may have smuggled it out of
Surat yourself, leaving a worthless letter of credit, in order to
swindle your merchants."
"The bastard."
"The truth will surely come out, Ambassador, as you say. So I wish you
good night and a restful sleep." Nadir Sharif turned and in moments had
melted into the darkness.
Hawksworth slowly worked his way down the cobblestone roadway, past the
guards at the Amar Singh Gate, and into the Agra night. He turned left
and headed toward the banks of the Jamuna, hoping the smells and sounds
of water would soothe his mind. When he reached the riverbank, he found
himself looking back at the massive walls of the Red Fort, wondering
again where Shirin was being kept, wanting to be with her. To hold her
one last time. But the high stone walls stood dark and mute as his own
despair.
"You are home, Sahib." The servants were waiting, beaming and
immaculate in fresh muslin _dhotis_, as Hawksworth pushed open the
doors of his compound. It was nearing midnight. "Your house is honored
tonight with a special evening."
"What are you planning? My farewell?"
The servants examined him uncomprehending as he pushed past the
portiere of the doorway.
The room was heavy with sandalwood incense. In the lamplight he
recognized Kamala's musicians: the gray-haired flautist in a long
_lungi _wrap and bare to the waist, the drummer smiling widely in a
plain white shirt and brown _dhoti_. Although he had not seen them for
days, they paused only briefly to acknowledge him. The drummer was
absorbed in tuning his instrument, using a small hammer to tap blocks
of wood wedged beneath the leather thongs securing the drumhead. As he
adjusted the tension on the thongs, he periodically tested the drum's
pitch against a note from the flute.
Kamala was nowhere to be seen. Hawksworth stared about the room
quizzically, then turned to the musicians. They responded with a
puzzled shrug and motioned toward a rear door.
"She summoned them here tonight, Sahib. She did not tell them why. No
one has seen her all day. It is very worrying." The servant shuffled
uneasily. "Has the Sahib heard the stories in the bazaar?"
"What stories?"
From behind the curtains came the sudden tinkling of tiny bells. The
musicians smiled in recognition.
As the servants edged toward the curtained doorway to look, Hawksworth
extracted a half-empty bottle of brandy from his chest and threw
himself down against a bolster.
What's this all about? Why can't I be alone for once? Tonight of all
nights she does this.
He puzzled a moment over Kamala, her erratic and powerful moods, then
his thoughts returned gloomily to the _Diwan-i-Khas _and to Shirin. He
could not give up hope. Never. He never gave up hope.
There was another tinkling of bells and the curtain at the doorway was
swept aside. Standing there, jewels afire in the lamplight, was Kamala.
He noticed the two musicians stare at her for an instant, then exchange
quick, disturbed glances.
She was, it seemed, more striking than he had ever seen her. Her eyes
were seductively lined with _kohl _and her lips were an inviting red,
matching the large dot on her forehead. In one side of her nose she
wore a small ring studded with diamonds. Her hair was swept back and
secured with rows of rubies and her throat and arms were circled with
bands of gold imbedded with small green emeralds. She wore a silken
wrap folded in pleats about each leg in a way that enhanced the full
curve of her hips. Her waist was circled by a belt of beaten gold, and
her palms and the soles of her feet had been reddened with henna. As
she came toward him, the bands of tiny bells at her ankles punctuated
the sensuous sway of her breasts beneath her silk halter.
"You've returned early. I'm glad." As she moved into the light, he
thought he caught a glimpse of some profound melancholy in her eyes. He
also noted her voice was strangely frail.
"Is there supposed to be a ceremony tonight I didn't know about?" As
Hawksworth studied her, he took another long swallow of brandy, its
heat burning away at his anguish.
"This is a special evening. I have decided to dance Bharata Natyam one
last time, for Lord Shiva."
"What do you mean, one last time?"
She seemed to stare past him for a moment, then she slowly turned. "I'm
truly glad you've come. To be here tonight. I would have waited for
you, but there was no time. And I wondered if you would really
understand. Perhaps I was wrong. Bharata Natyam is never only for the
dancer. So it is good you are here. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps
you can understand something of what I feel tonight."
"I haven't understood much that's happened tonight so far." Hawksworth
settled his brandy bottle awkwardly onto the carpet and forced himself
to bring her into focus.
"You do not seem yourself, my _feringhi _Sahib." She studied him for a
moment. "Did you hear sad news of your Persian woman?"
"Nothing. But I'm afraid I've just lost my best chance to save her."
"I don't understand."
"It's not your trouble." He examined her wistfully. "It seems I'll be
leaving Agra sooner than I thought. So dance if you want, and then I'll
wish you well."
"Your trouble is always my trouble." She frowned as she studied him.
"But you are leaving? So soon?" She seemed not to wait for an answer as
she went on. "Never mind, I've never understood the affairs of
ambassadors and kings. But our parting must not be sad. Let my dance to
Shiva be my farewell to you."
She turned and signaled to the flautist, who began a low- pitched,
poignant melody. "Have you ever seen the Bharata Natyam?"
"Never." Hawksworth sipped more brandy from the bottle and found
himself wishing he could send them all away and play a suite on his
lute, the one he had played for Shirin that day at the observatory.
"Then it may be difficult for you to comprehend at first. With my body
and my song I will tell Lord Shiva of my longing for him. Do you think
you can understand it?"
"I'll try." Hawksworth looked up at her and again sensed some great
sadness in her eyes.
She examined him silently for a moment. "But I want you to understand.
Not the words I sing, they're in ancient Sanskrit, but if you watch my
hands, they will also speak. I will sing to Lord Shiva, but I give life
to his song with my eyes, my hands, my body. I will re-create the poem
with my dance. My eyes will speak the desire of my heart. The language
of my hands will tell my longing for Lord Shiva. My feet will show the
rhythms by which he brings order to the world. If you will try to feel
what I feel, perhaps Lord Shiva will touch you and lighten your
burden."
"And this is called Bharata Natyam? What does that mean?" Hawksworth
slipped off his mud-smeared boots and wearily tossed them next to the
carpet.
"The ancient temple dance of India is Bharata Natyam: bhava means mood,
raga means song, tala means rhythm. All these are brought together in
the dance. Natyam means the merging of dance and story. The true
Bharata Natyam has seven movements: some are called pure dance and
these are only rhythms, but some also tell a story. If I were to dance
them all, as I would in the temple, I would have to dance all night."
She tried wanly to smile. "But not now. Tonight I am not so strong.
Tonight I will dance only the Varnam, the most important movement. In
it I will tell the story of how the goddess Parvati, Shiva's beloved
consort, longs for her lord. If I dance well I will become Parvati, and
through the story of her love for Shiva, I will tell my own."
"So it's really just a love song?"
"It is Parvati's song of longing for her lord. The words are very
simple.
_"Great with love for you this night.
Am I, oh Lord.
Do not avert yourself from me.
Do not tease me, do not scorn me,
Oh great, oh beautiful God
Of the Brihadishwari temple.
Great God who gives release
From the sorrows of the world . . ."
_
Kamala paused to tighten the straps securing the bells around her
ankles. "The song goes on to say that she cannot bear even to hear the
voice of the nightingale now that she is separated from her Lord Shiva.
She cannot endure the dark night now that he has taken himself from
her."
"It's a very touching love song." Hawksworth found himself thinking
again of Shirin, and of the dark nights they had both endured.
"It is really much more. You see, Lord Shiva is her beloved, but he is
also her god. So her song also praises the beauty of the great Shiva in
all his many aspects: as her own consort, as one who has the Third Eye
of Knowledge, as the great God of the Dance, Nataraj. Through my dance
I will show all the many aspects of Shiva--as creator, as destroyer, as
lord of the cosmic rhythms of life."
Hawksworth watched in groggy fascination as she rose and, clasping her
hands above her head, bowed toward a small bronze statue of the Dancing
Shiva she had placed on a corner table. Then, as the drummer took up a
steady cadence and the flute began a searching, high-pitched lament,
she struck a statuesque pose of her own, feet crossed, arms above her
head. Gradually her eyes began to dart seductively from side to side,
growing in power until it seemed her entire body might explode.
Abruptly she assumed a second pose, reminiscent of the statue. As the
drummer's rhythms slowly increased, she began to follow them with her
body, next with her feet, slapping heel, then ball, fiercely against
the carpet. The drummer began to call out his bols, the strokes he was
sounding on the drum, and as he did she matched his rhythms with the
rows of tiny bells around her ankles.
Hawksworth found himself being drawn into her dance. Her rhythms were
not flamboyant like those of the Kathak style, but rather seemed to
duplicate some deep natural cadence, as she returned again and again to
the pose of the Dancing Shiva. It was pure dance, and he slowly began
to feel the power of her controlled sensuality.
Without warning she began a brief song to Shiva in a high- pitched,
repetitive refrain. As she sang, her hands formed the signs for woman,
for beauty, for desire, for dozens of other words and ideas Hawksworth
could not decipher. Yet her expressive eyes exquisitely translated many
of the hand signs, while her body left no mistaking the intensity of
their emotion.
When the song and its mime reached some climactic plateau, she suddenly
resumed the pure dance, with the drummer once more reciting the bols as
he sounded them. Again she matched his rhythms perfectly.
After a time she began another verse of the song. By her mime
Hawksworth concluded she was describing some aspect of Lord Shiva. When
the song concluded, the drummer called out more _bols _and again she
danced only his rhythms. Then she began yet another verse of the song,
followed by still more rhythmic dance. The aspects of Shiva that she
created all seemed different. Some wise, some fierce, some clearly of a
beauty surpassing words.
As Hawksworth watched, he began to sense some alien power growing
around him, enveloping him and his despair, just as she had said.
Kamala seemed to be gradually merging with an energy far beyond
herself, almost as though she had invoked some primal rhythm of life
into existence. And as he watched the growing intensity of her dance he
began to experience a deep, almost primitive sense of fear, a stark
knowledge of life and death beyond words.
He found himself fighting to resist the force of some malevolent evil
settling about the room, beginning to possess it and all it contained.
He felt its power begin to draw out his own life, hungry and insistent,
terrifying. And still she danced on, now only rhythms, her body dipping
and whirling, her arms everywhere at once, her smile frozen in an
ecstatic trance.
Forcing himself at last to turn away, he looked toward the musicians.
They seemed entranced by her as well, captured by the delirium of her
dance. He finally caught the eye of the drummer and weakly signaled him
to stop. But the man stared as though not comprehending, spellbound.
Her dance had now grown to a frenzy, surpassing human limits.
Summoning his last strength, he tried to pull himself up off the
bolster, but he discovered his legs were no longer his own. The room
had become a whirling pattern of color and sound, beyond all control.
Uncertainly he turned and began to feel about the carpet for his boots.
His grip closed about a sheath of soft leather and he probed inside.
There, strapped and still loaded, was his remaining pocket pistol.
Shakily he took it in his hand, checked the prime, and began trying to
aim at the long drum resting between the musicians. Now the drum seemed
to drift back and forth in his vision, while the players smiled at him
with glazed eyes.
He heard a hiss and felt his hand fly upward, as though unconnected to
his body. Then the world around erupted in smoke and flying splinters
of wood.
The shot had been timed perfectly with the end of a rhythm cycle, as
the drum exploded into fragments on the sum.
The smoky room was suddenly gripped in silence. The musicians stared
wildly for a moment, then threw themselves face down on the carpet,
pleading in unknown words needing no translation. Hawksworth looked in
confusion at the smoking pistol in his hand, not recognizing it. Then
he threw it onto the carpet and turned toward Kamala.
She was gazing at him with open, vacant eyes, as though awakened
suddenly from a powerful dream. Her breath was coming in short bursts,
and her skin seemed afire. She stood motionless for a moment, then
tried to move toward him, holding out her arms. After two hesitant
steps, she crumpled to the carpet.
When he bolted upward to reach for her, the servants were there,
holding him back.
"You must not touch her, Sahib."
"But she's . . ."
"No, Sahib." They gripped his arms tighter. "Can't you see? She has the
sickness."
"What are you talking about?"
"It began late today, in the bazaar. Perhaps they do not know of it yet
in the fort. At first no one realized what it was. But tonight, while
she was dancing, one of the slaves from Sharif Sahib's kitchen came to
tell us. Two of the eunuchs and five of his servants have become very
sick." He paused to look at Kamala. "I think she must have known. That
is why she wanted to dance tonight."
"Knew what? What did she know?"
"The plague, Sahib. The slave who came said that the plague has struck
all over Agra. It has never happened in India before." The servant
paused. "It is the will of Allah. The prophet Samad foretold it. Now it
has come."
Hawksworth turned again to Kamala. She was still watching him with
empty, expressionless eyes, as though her life had just poured out of
her. He looked down at her for a moment, then reached for a pillow and
carefully slipped it beneath her head. Her lips moved as she tried to
form words, but at first no sound came. Then, as though again finding
some strength beyond herself, her voice came in a whisper.
"Did you see?"
"What . . . ?"
"Did you see him? The Great God Shiva. He came tonight. And danced
beside me. Did you see his beauty?" She paused to breathe, then her
voice rose again, full and warm. "He was as I knew he would be.
Beautiful beyond telling. He danced in a ring of fire, with his hair
streaming out in burning strands. He came as Shiva the Destroyer. But
his dance was so beautiful. So very, very beautiful."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
_From the _Tuzuk-i-Arangbari, the court chronicles of His Imperial
Majesty_:
"On the day of Mubarak-shamba, the twenty-eighth of the month of Dai,
there came first reports of the pestilence in the city of Agra. On this
day over five hundred people were stricken.
The first signs are headache and fever and much bleeding at the nose.
After this the _dana _of the plague, buboes, form under the armpits, or
in the groin, or below the throat. The infected ones turn in color from
yellow inclining to black. They vomit and endure much high fever and
pain. And then they die.
If one in a household contracts the pestilence and dies, others in the
same house inevitably follow after, traveling the same road of
annihilation. Those in whom the buboes appeared, if they call another
person for water to drink or wash, will also infect the latter with the
sirayat, the infection. It has come to pass that, through excessive
apprehension, none will minister unto those infected.
It has become known from men of great age and from old histories that
this disease has never before shown itself in this land of Hindustan.
Many physicians and learned men have been questioned as to its cause.
Some say it has come because there has been drought for two years in
succession; others say it is owing to the corruption of the air. Some
attribute it to other causes.
The infection is now spreading to all towns and villages in the region
of Agra save one, the noble city of the Great Akman, Fatehpur.
Wisdom is of Allah, and all men must submit.
Written this last day of the Muharram in the Hijri year after the
Prophet of 1028 A.H., by Mu'tamad Khan, Second Wazir to His Imperial
Majesty, Arangbar."
_
Brian Hawksworth walked slowly up worn stone steps leading from the
riverside funeral ghats. The pathway was narrow, crowded, and lined
with carved statues of Hindu gods: a roly-poly god with human form and
the head of an elephant, a god with a lion's body and a grotesquely
grinning human face, an austere deity with a pointed head and a trident
in his hand. All were ancient, weathered, ill-kept. Tame monkeys,
small, brown, malicious, chased among them screeching.
The smoke from the _ghats _behind him still seared in his lungs. Only
when he reached the top of the steps could he force himself to look
back. Scavenger birds wheeled in the sky above and small barks with
single oarsmen plied the muddy face of the Jamuna. Along the banks were
toiling washermen, Untouchables, who wore nothing save a brown
loincloth and a kerchief over their heads. They stood in a long row,
knee-deep at the water's edge, mechanically slapping folded lengths of
cloth against stacks of flat stones. They seemed unconcerned by the
nearness of the funeral ghats, stone platforms at the river's edge that
were built out above the steps leading down into the water. As he
silently surveyed the crowd around him, from somewhere on the street
above a voice chanted a funeral litany: Ram Nam Sach Hai, the Name of
Ram Is Truth Itself.
It had taken four days for Kamala to die. The morning after she had
danced, she had begun to show unmistakable symptoms of the plague. She
had called for Brahmin priests and, seating herself on a wooden plank
in their presence, had removed her _todus_, the ear pendants that were
the mark of her _devadasi _caste, and placed them together with twelve
gold coins on the plank before her. It was her deconsecration. Then
with a look of infinite peace, she had announced she was ready to die.
Next she informed the priests that since she had no sons in Agra, no
family at all, she wanted Brian Hawksworth to officiate at her funeral.
He had not understood what she wanted until the servants whispered it
to him. The Brahmins had been scandalized and at first had refused to
agree, insisting he had no caste and consequently was a despicable
Untouchable. Finally, after more payments, they had reluctantly
consented. Then she had turned to him and explained what she had done.
When he tried to argue, she had appealed to him in the name of Shiva.
"I only ask you do this one last thing for me," she had said, going on
to insist his responsibilities would not be difficult. "There are Hindu
servants in the palace. Though they are low caste, they know enough
Turki to guide you."
After the Brahmins had departed, she called the servants and, as
Hawksworth watched, ordered them to remove all her jewels from the
rosewood box where she kept them. Then she asked him to accompany them
as they took the jewels through the Hindu section of Agra, to a temple
of the goddess Mari, who presides over epidemics. They were to donate
all her jewels to the goddess. Smiling at Hawksworth's astonishment,
she had explained that Hindus believe a person's reincarnation is
directly influenced by the amount of alms given in his or her previous
life. This last act of charity might even bring her back as a Brahmin.
Two days later she lapsed into a delirium of fever. As death drew near,
the Hindu servants again summoned the priests to visit the palace. The
plague was spreading now, and with it fear, and at first none had been
willing to comply. Only after it was agreed that they would be paid
three times the usual price for the ceremonies did the Brahmins come.
They had laid Kamala's body on a bed of _kusa _grass in the open air,
sprinkled her head with water brought from the sacred Ganges River, and
smeared her brow with Ganges clay. She had seemed only vaguely
conscious of what they were doing.
When at last she died, her body was immediately washed, perfumed, and
bedecked with flowers. Then she was wrapped in linen, lifted onto a
bamboo bier, and carried toward the river ghats by the Hindu servants,
winding through the streets with her body held above their heads,
intoning a funeral dirge. Hawksworth had led the procession, carrying a
firepot with sacred fire provided by Nadir Sharifs Hindu servants.
The riverside was already crowded with mourners, for there had been
many deaths, and the air was acrid from the smoke of cremation pyres.
On the steps above the ghats was a row of thatch umbrellas, and sitting
on a reed mat beneath each was a Brahmin priest. All were shirtless,
potbellied, and wore three stripes of white clay down their forehead in
honor of Vishnu's trident. The servants approached one of the priests
and began to bargain with him. After a time the man rose and signified
agreement. The servants whispered to Hawksworth that he was there to
provide funeral rites for hire, adding with some satisfaction that
Brahmins who served at the ghats were despised as mercenaries by the
rest of their caste.
After the bargain had been struck, the priest retired beneath his
umbrella to watch while they purchased logs from vendors and began
construction of a pyre. When finished, it was small, no more than three
feet high, and irregular; but no one seemed to care. Satisfied, they
proceeded to douse it with oil.
Then the Brahmin priest was summoned from his umbrella and he rose and
came down the steps, bowing to a stone Shiva lingam as he passed. After
he had performed a short ceremony, chanting from the Vedas, the winding
sheet was cut away and Kamala's body was lifted atop the stack of wood.
A mortal sadness had swept through Hawksworth as he stood holding the
torch, listening to the Brahmin chant and studying the flow of the
river. He thought again of Kamala, of the times he had secretly admired
her erotic bearing, the times she had sat patiently explaining how best
to draw the long sensuous notes from his new sitar, the times he had
held her in his arms. And he thought again of their last evening, when
she had danced with the power of a god.
When at last he moved toward the bier, the servants had touched his arm
and pointed him toward her feet, explaining that only if the deceased
were a man could the pyre be lighted at the head.
The oil-soaked logs had kindled quickly, sending out the sweet smoke of
_neem_. Soon the pyre was nothing but yellow tongues of fire, and for a
moment he thought he glimpsed her once more, in among the flames,
dancing as the goddess Parvati, the beloved consort of Shiva.
When he turned to walk away, the servants had caught his sleeve and
indicated he must remain. As her "son" it was his duty to ensure that
the heat burst her skull, releasing her soul. Otherwise he would have
to do it himself.
He waited, the smoke drifting over him, astonished that a religion
capable of the beauty of her dance could treat death with such
barbarity. At last, to his infinite relief, the servants indicated they
could leave. They gathered up the pot of sacred fire and took his arm
to lead him away. It was then he had pulled away, wanting to be alone
with her one last time. Finally, no longer able to check his tears, he
had turned and started blindly up the steps, alone.
Now he stared numbly back, as though awakened from a nightmare. Almost
without thinking, he searched the pocket of his jerkin until his
fingers closed around a flask of brandy. He drew deeply on it twice
before turning to make his way on through the streets of Agra.
*
"You took an astonishing risk merely to honor the whims of your Hindu
dancer, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif had summoned Hawksworth to his
reception room at sunset. "Few men here would have done it."
"I've lived through plagues twice before. In 1592 over ten thousand in
London died of the plague, and in 1603, in the summer after King
James's coronation, over thirty thousand died, one person out of every
five. If I were going to die, I would have by now." Hawksworth listened
to his own bravado and wondered if it sounded as hollow as it was. He
remembered his own haunting fear during the height of the last plague,
when rowdy, swearing Bearers, rogues some declared more ill-bred than
hangmen, plied the city with rented barrows, their cries of "Cast out
your dead" ringing through the deserted streets. They charged sixpence
a corpse, and for their fee they carted the bodies to open pits at the
city's edge for unconsecrated, anonymous burial, the cutpurse and the
alderman piled side by side. As he remembered London again, suddenly
the Hindu rites seemed considerably less barbaric.
"You're a brave man, nonetheless, or a foolish one." Nadir Sharif
gestured him toward a bolster. "Tell me, have your English physicians
determined the cause of the infection?"
"There are many theories. The Puritans say it's God's vengeance; and
astrologers point out that there was a conjunction of the planets
Jupiter and Saturn when the last plague struck. But our physicians seem
to have two main theories. Some hold it's caused by an excess of
corrupt humors in the body, whereas others claim it's spread by
poisonous air, which has taken up vapors contrary to nature."
Nadir Sharif sat pensive and silent for a moment, as though pondering
the explanations. Then he turned to Hawksworth.
"What you seem to have told me is that your physicians have absolutely
no idea what causes the plague. So they have very ingeniously invented
names for the main points of their ignorance." He smiled. "Indian
physicians have been known to do the same. Tell me then, what do you
think causes it?"
"I don't know either. It seems to worsen in the years after crops have
been bad, when there are hungry dogs and rats scavenging in the
streets. During the last plague all the dogs in London were killed or
sent out of the city, but it didn't seem to help."
"And what about the rats?"
"There've always been men in England who make a living as rat-catchers,
but with the dogs gone during the plague, the rats naturally started to
multiply."
Nadir smiled thoughtfully. "You know, the Hindus have a book, the
Bhagavata Parana, that warns men to quit their house if they see a
sickly rat near it. Indians have long assumed vermin bring disease.
Have you considered the possibility that the source of the plague might
be the rats, rather than the dogs? Perhaps by removing the dogs, you
eliminated the best deterrent to the bearer of the plague, the rats?"
"No one has thought of that."
"Well, the European plague has finally reached India, whatever its
cause." Nadir Sharif looked away gloomily. "Almost a hundred people
died in Agra this past week. Our physicians are still searching for a
cure. What remedies do you use in England? I think His Majesty would be
most interested to know."
"I suppose the measures are more general than specific. Englishmen try
to ward it off by purging the pestilent air around them. They burn
rosemary and juniper and bay leaves in their homes. During the last
plague the price of rosemary went up from twelve pence an armful to six
shillings a handful. But the only people helped seemed to be herb wives
and gardeners. One physician claimed the plague could be avoided by
wearing a bag of arsenic next to the skin. There's also a belief that
if you bury half a dozen peeled onions near your home, they'll gather
all the infection in the neighborhood. And some people fumigate the
contagious vapors from their rooms by dropping a red-hot brick into a
basin of vinegar."
"Do these curious nostrums work?" Nadir Sharif tried to mask his
skepticism.
"I suppose it's possible. Who can say for sure? But the plague always
diminishes after a time, usually with the onset of winter."
"Doesn't your king do anything?"
"He usually leaves London if an infection starts to spread. In 1603,
the year of his coronation, he first went to Richmond, then to
Southampton, then to Wilton. He traveled all summer and only returned
in the autumn."
"Is that all he did? Travel?"
"There were Plague Orders in all the infected towns. And any house
where someone was infected had to have a red cross painted on the door
and a Plague Bill attached. No one inside could leave. Anyone caught
outside was whipped and set in the stocks."
"And did these measures help?"
"Englishmen resent being told they can't leave home. So people would
tear the Plague Bills off their doors and go about their business. Some
towns hired warders at sixpence a day to watch the houses and make sure
no one left. But when so many are infected, it's impossible to watch
everyone. So there were also orders forbidding assemblies. King James
banned the holding of fairs within fifty miles of London. And all
gatherings in London were prohibited by a city order--playhouses, gaming
houses, cockpits, bear-baiting, bowling, football. Even ballad singers
were told to stay off the streets."
"His Majesty may find that interesting." Nadir Sharif turned and
signaled for _sharbat _from the servants. "Perhaps he should issue laws
forbidding assembly before he leaves Agra."
"Is he leaving?" Hawksworth felt his heart stop.
"Day after tomorrow." Nadir Sharif watched as the tray of _sharbat
_cups arrived and immediately directed it toward Hawksworth.
"I have to see him one last time before he leaves. Before I leave."
"I really think that's impossible now. He's canceled the daily
_durbar_. No one can see him. Even I have difficulty meeting with him."
Nadir Sharif accepted a cup from the tray and examined Hawksworth
sorrowfully as he sipped it. "In any case, I fear a meeting would do
you little good, Ambassador. He's busy arranging the departure for all
the court, including the _zenana_. There are thousands of people to
move, and on very short notice. In fact, I've been trying to see Her
Majesty for several days, but she has received no one." He smiled
evenly. "Not even her own brother."
"Where's His Majesty planning to go?"
"Not so very far, actually. Ordinarily he probably would
travel north, toward Kashmir. But since winter is approaching, he's
decided to go west, to Fatehpur Sekri. The area around the old palace
has remained free of the infection."
"But I have to see him." Hawksworth hesitated. "Do you know what's
happened to Shirin?"
"Nothing, so far as I hear. I believe she's still being held in the
fort." Nadir Sharif studied Hawksworth. "But I would advise you in the
strongest possible terms to avoid meddling in the business of that
Persian adventuress and her departed Sufi heretic."
"What I do is my affair." Hawksworth set down his cup harder than
necessary. "I insist on seeing His Majesty. I want you to arrange it."
"But a formal meeting is really quite impossible, Ambassador. Haven't I
made that clear?" Nadir Sharif paused to collect his poise. "But
perhaps if you appeared when his entourage is departing Agra, you might
be able to speak with him. I have to insist, however, that a meeting
now would be pointless and possibly even dangerous, considering His
Majesty's disposition at the moment."
"I'll see him before he leaves, somehow. I'll find a way."
"Then I wish you Godspeed, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif put down his
_sharbat _glass. "Incidentally, there's a large caravan leaving for
Surat day after tomorrow. Should I make arrangements for you to join
it?"
"I'm not going anywhere until I see the Moghul."
"You're a headstrong man, Ambassador. Please believe I wish you well.
Notwithstanding His Majesty's current views, I've always regarded you
highly." He signaled for a tray of betel leaves and rose, flashing one
of his official smiles. "Who knows? Perhaps your luck is due for a
change."
Queen Janahara read the dispatch twice, the lines of her mouth growing
tighter each time, before passing it back to Arangbar. He studied it
again, holding it with a trembling hand, seeming not to fully
comprehend its meaning, then extended it to Nadir Sharif. The courtyard
off Arangbar's private library was deadly silent, all servants and
eunuchs banished. The tapestries shading the inner compartment had been
drawn back, permitting the hard light of morning to illuminate the
flowered murals on the library's red sandstone walls. Arangbar sipped
wine from a gilded cup and studied Nadir Sharifs face while the prime
minister read, as though hoping somehow to decipher the document's
significance from his expression.
"He has plainly refused. Majesty." Nadir Sharifs voice was strangely
calm. "When did this arrive?"
"This morning. It's his reply to the pigeon I sent to Burhanpur the day
after the wedding, ordering him to return the command in the south to
Ghulam Adl and march to the northwest, to relieve the fortress at
Qandahar." Arangbar's eyes were bloodshot and grim. "At least we know
now where he is."
"We know nothing." Janahara reached for the document and scrutinized
it. "This dispatch was sent four days ago. He could be as far north as
Mandu by now, or well on his way to Agra."
"I doubt very much he will march anywhere." Nadir Sharif cut her off
without seeming to do so. "Until he receives a response to the terms he
has demanded."
"Repeat them to me." Arangbar was having difficulty focusing on the
wine cup and he shifted his gaze into the courtyard.
"They are very explicit. Majesty." Nadir Sharif rolled the document and
replaced it in the bamboo sleeve. "Jadar has refused to march to defend
Qandahar unless his horse rank is raised to thirty thousand, and unless
the _jagirs _in Dholpur, those that were granted to Prince Allaudin,
are returned. What will you do?"
"There can be no bargaining with an Imperial order," Queen Janahara
interjected. "How many times will you be intimidated? Remember he
refused to undertake this campaign--which, I should add, he has
apparently bungled--until his _suwar _rank was elevated, and his elder
brother Khusrav was sent out of Agra. When will his demands end?" Her
voice rose. "Even now we do not know what has happened. All we know for
sure is that two months ago he marched south from Burhanpur. And four
days ago he was there again. Was he driven back when he tried to
recapture Ahmadnagar from Malik Ambar? Does the Deccan still belong to
the Abyssinian? Prince Jadar has much to answer."
"But the dispatch was sent from Burhanpur. At least he hasn't abandoned
the city entirely, as some of the rumors said," Nadir Sharif continued
evenly. "And I don't believe he has abandoned the south, either. He
would not permit it to remain in rebel hands. Whatever else he is, he's
a soldier first."
"For all we know he is now isolated at the fortress in Burhanpur."
Janahara studied the empty courtyard. "If he has not already lost the
city."
"So what do you propose be done?" Arangbar's voice was slurred as he
sipped from his cup.
"There's only one choice remaining, if you ever hope to control Jadar."
She spoke directly to Arangbar. "Order Inayat Latif to mobilize the
Imperial army and march south, now. We have to know what's happening
there. Inayat Latif is a far abler general than Jadar. He, at least,
can ensure the Deccan is secure. Then we can handle the matter of
Jadar's demands."
"But that could also give the appearance the Imperial army is marching
against Jadar." Nadir Sharif shifted uncomfortably. "He will see it as
an ultimatum. Do you really think he will respond to threats? You must
know him better than that."
"I know him all too well." Janahara's voice was hard.
"Your Majesty"--Nadir Sharif turned directly to the queen--"perhaps if he
is given more time, he will come to better . . . appreciate his
position. I suggest the first thing we do is request a clarification of
the military situation throughout the Deccan. Then we can send the
Imperial army, as reinforcements, if it still seems advisable."
"I'm growing weary of constantly trying to outguess Jadar." Arangbar
examined his cup and noted gloomily that it was dry. "First the plague,
and now the preparations for the move. I'm exhausted. When do we
depart?"
"I'm told the last of the elephants will be ready within one
_pahar_, Majesty." Nadir Sharif studied the queen casually, wondering
how far she would push her influence with Arangbar. "I agree with you
it would be wisest to wait."
"If you insist on doing nothing, at least the Imperial army should be
mobilized and made ready." Janahara's dulcet voice was betrayed by the
quick flash in her eyes. "Then Jadar will understand we are prepared to
act quickly if he remains defiant."
"How many men and horse does Inayat Latif have under his command now?"
Arangbar searched the darkened recesses behind them for a servant to
summon with more wine.
"There are over a hundred thousand men here. Majesty, and probably
fifty thousand cavalry. Over three times the force Jadar took with him
to the south." Nadir Sharif paused. "They could always move out within,
say, two to three weeks."
"I insist the forces here at least be mobilized, and moved to Fatehpur
with the court . . . lest the army itself become contaminated by the
plague." Janahara hesitated for a moment and then continued evenly.
"I'm prepared to order it in your name today. It would protect the army
from infection; you would have them with you if you needed them; and it
would also put Jadar on notice."
"Then prepare the orders for my seal, if it pleases you." Arangbar
sighed and reached for his turban. "You're usually right."
"You know I'm right." She smiled warmly. "And, regardless, no harm will
be done."
"Then it's settled." Arangbar tried unsuccessfully to rise, and Nadir
Sharif stepped forward, assisting him to his feet. "I have to hold
_durbar _one last time today, quickly before we leave. The Persian
Safavid ambassador notified the _wazir _he has gifts and a petition
that must be brought to me before the court leaves Agra." He grinned.
"The Safavis are so worried I will form an alliance with the
northwestern Uzbeks that their Emperor Shah Abbas sends gifts every
month."
"You've decided to hold _durbar _today, after all?" Nadir Sharifs eyes
quickened. "If so, there's a Portuguese official from Surat who also
wishes to present some gifts from the Viceroy and speak with you on a
matter he said was delicate."
"What 'delicate' matter does His Excellency have?" Janahara stopped
sharply on her way toward the corridor and turned back. "I've heard
nothing about it."
"I suppose we'll all discover that in _durbar_, Majesty." Nadir Sharif
bowed and was gone.
Brian Hawksworth waited in the crowded square of the _Diwan-i-Am_,
holding a large package and hoping the rumored appearance of Arangbar
was true. For the past four days the Moghul had not held _durbar_, had
remained in complete isolation. But only an hour before, talk had
circulated in the square that Arangbar would hold a brief reception
before departing, probably in a tent pavilion that had been erected in
the center of the square. As though to verify the speculation, slaves
had unrolled several thick carpets beneath the tent, installed a dais,
and were now positioning his throne onto the platform.
Hawksworth stared about the square and felt his palms sweat.
Is this the last time I ever see the Moghul of India? And Shirin never
again? Is this how it ends?
He had spent the last several days in a private hell, thinking of
Shirin and waiting for the first fever, the first nodules that would
signal the plague. So far there had been no signs of the disease. And
he had heard that the consensus in the bazaar was the infection would
subside within the month. Clearly it would be nothing like London in
1603.
Palace rumors said that Shirin was still alive. All executions had
ceased after the appearance of the plague. And stories were that the
Moghul was rarely seen sober. Perhaps, Hawksworth told himself,
Arangbar has stayed so drunk he has forgotten her.
He had finally conceived one last plan to try to save her. Then he had
packed his chest, settled his accounts, and dismissed his servants. If
nothing came of the meeting today . . . if there was a meeting . . . he
would have to leave in any case.
He moved closer to the royal pavilion, pushing his way through the
melee of shirtless servants. The elephants for the _zenana _had been
moved into the square and were now being readied. There were, by
Hawksworth's rough count, approximately a hundred elephants to carry
Arangbar's women. The _howdahs _for the main wives were fashioned from
gold, with gratings of gold wire around the sides to provide a view and
an umbrella canopy of silver cloth for shade. A special elephant was
waiting for Queen Janahara and Princess Layla, decorated with a canvas
of gold brocade and bearing a jewel-studded _howdah_.
As Hawksworth watched, another elephant, shining with black paint and
the largest he had ever seen, lumbered regally into the square, ridden
by a mahout with a gold-braided turban. Its covering was even more
lavish than that of the queen's mount, and its _howdah _was emblazoned
with the Imperial standard of Arangbar, a long-tailed lion crouching
menacingly in front of a golden sun face. Beneath the verandas rows of
saddled horses waited for the lesser members of the court, each with a
slave stationed alongside bearing an umbrella of gold cloth, and in
front of the horses were rows of crimson-colored palanquins, their
pearl-embroidered velvet gleaming in the light, ready for high
officials.
The roadway leading from the square of the _Diwan-i-Am _had been lined
with a guard of three hundred male war elephants, each with a cannon
turret on its back. Behind those, three hundred female elephants stood
idling in the sunshine, their backs covered with gold cloth marked with
the Moghurs insignia, waiting to be loaded with household goods from
the _zenana_. Just beyond the gate a host of watermen were poised with
waterskins slung from their backs, ready to run before the Moghul's
procession sprinkling the roadway to banish dust. Near them a small
party of men stood holding the harness of a camel bearing a roll of
white cloth, used to cover and banish from sight any dead animals that
might lie along the route of the Moghuls party.
The courtyard erupted with a sudden blare of trumpets and kettledrums,
and Hawksworth turned to see Arangbar being carried in on an open
palanquin, supported by uniformed eunuchs. A slave walked along one
side, holding a satin umbrella over his head for shade, while on the
other, two chubby eunuchs walked fanning him with sprays of peacock
feathers attached to long poles.
As the palanquin neared the tent, Hawksworth pushed through the crowd
to gain a better view. Arangbar was dressed for a ceremonial occasion,
wearing a velvet turban with a plume of white _heme _feathers almost
two feet in length. A walnut-sized ruby dangled from one side of the
turban, and on the other side was a massive diamond, paired with a
heart-shaped emerald. Around his turban was a sash wreathed with a
chain of pearls. Rings bearing flashing jewels decorated every finger,
and his cloak was gold brocade, decorated with jeweled armlets.
As he descended from the palanquin, at the entry of the pavilion, the
nobles near him yelled "Padshah Salamat," Long Live the Emperor, and
performed the _teslim_. As he moved toward his throne two more eunuchs
were waiting. One stepped forward and presented an enormous pink carp
on a silver tray, while the other held out a dish of starchy white
liquid. Arangbar dipped his finger in the liquid, touched it to the
fish, then rubbed his own forehead--a Moghul ceremony presaging good
omens for a march.
Next, another eunuch stepped forward, bowed, and presented him with a
sword. He stared at it for a moment as though confused, then shakily
ran his finger along the diamonds set in the scabbard and the braided
gold belt. As the eunuch urged it toward him, he nodded and allowed it
to be buckled at his waist. Another eunuch then presented him with a
golden quiver containing thin bamboo arrows and a gleaming lacquer bow.
As he mounted the dais, two eunuchs moved to his side, each waving a
gold-handled tail of white yak hair intended to drive away flies.
Another fanfare of trumpets and drums cut the air as the eunuchs helped
him onto the throne.
Only when Arangbar was seated did Hawksworth notice
that Nadir Sharif and Zainul Beg were already waiting at the foot of
the dais. He also noted Queen Janahara was not present. And then he
realized why. The servants had neglected to erect her screen, the one
she normally sat behind to dictate his decisions. Since the appearance
of Arangbar's solitary rule still had to be maintained, she could not
be seen publicly issuing orders, at least not yet.
Hawksworth smiled to himself, wondering whose head would roll for the
oversight. Then, as he watched Nadir Sharif begin explaining petitions
to Arangbar, he thought he sensed a gleam of triumph in the prime
minister's eye. Could it be the failure to install a screen was
deliberate?
The Persian Safavid ambassador approached with the obligatory gift,
this time an ornamental case containing a ruby on a gold chain, and
then handed up a paper. Arangbar listened to Nadir Sharif explain the
document, then appeared to ponder it a moment. Finally he waved his
arms lightly and agreed to something Hawksworth did not catch. The
ambassador bowed his appreciation, revolved with enormous dignity, and
retreated into the sunshine.
Arangbar was already beginning to grow restless, clearly anxious to
dismiss everyone and begin loading the _zenana _women onto their
elephants. He turned and spoke to Nadir Sharif, who replied quickly and
motioned toward a Portuguese emissary in a starched doublet who stood
waiting, together with Father Sarmento. It was the first time
Hawksworth had noticed them, and he felt his gut knot in hatred as he
shoved his own way forward toward the pavilion.
Arangbar listened with a glazed expression, nodding occasionally, as
the Portuguese emissary delivered an elaborate speech, translated by
Sarmento, and began laying out the contents of a chest he carried. With
theatrical flair he drew out several large silver candlesticks, a brace
of gold- handled knives with jewel-embossed sheaths, a dozen wine cups
of Venetian crystal. Then he produced a leather packet with a red wax
seal. He spoke a few more words and passed it to Nadir Sharif.
The prime minister examined it, broke the seal to extract the
parchment, then gestured for Sarmento to come forward to translate. The
Jesuit suddenly looked very old and very uneasy as he adjusted his
peaked black hat and took the paper.
Hawksworth shoved closer, and for the first time Arangbar seemed to
notice him. The Moghul's eyes darkened and he started to say something
in Hawksworth's direction, but Sarmento had already begun the
translation into Turki.
"His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, sends this message of his high
regard and everlasting friendship for His Most High Majesty, the Great
Moghul of India. He bows before you and hopes you will honor him by
accepting these few small tokens of his admiration."
Sarmento shifted and cleared his throat. Arangbar's eyes had fluttered
partially closed and his head seemed to nod sleepily at the
conventional flattery.
"His Excellency asks Your Majesty's indulgence of a grievous misdeed
last week by a captain of one of our patrol vessels. He assures Your
Majesty that the captain will be stripped of all rank and returned in
chains to Goa within the month."
Arangbar's eyes had again opened and he shifted slightly on the throne.
"What 'misdeed' is referred to?"
Sarmento looked at the emissary, who quickly replied in Portuguese. The
Jesuit turned again to Arangbar.
"Your Majesty will doubtless receive a dispatch from Surat within a
short time describing an unfortunate incident. His Excellency wants you
to understand in advance that it was a mistaken order, undertaken
entirely without his knowledge or approval."
Arangbar was fully awake now and staring down at the two Portuguese.
"What order? Did the Viceroy order something he now wishes to disown?
What was it?"
"It's the unfortunate matter of the _Fatima_, Your Majesty." Sarmento
turned helplessly toward the Portuguese emissary, as though he too were
searching for an explanation.
"What about the _Fatima_? She's my largest cargo vessel. She's due in
Surat in two days, with goods from Persia." Arangbar's face was sober
now. "Her Highness, Maryam Zamani, had eighty _lakhs _of rupees . . ."
"The _Fatima_ is safe, Your Majesty. She has only been detained at sea,
on a mistaken interpretation of His Excellency's orders." Sarmento
seemed to be blurting out the words. "But he wishes to assure you . .
."
"Impossible!" Arangbar's voice was suddenly a roar. "He would not dare!
He knows the cargo was under my seal. I have a copy of the cartaz sent
to Goa."
"It was a grievous mistake, Majesty. His Excellency sends his deepest
apologies and offers to . . ."
"It was done on _someone's _order! It had to be his. How can it be a
'mistake'!" Arangbar's face had gone purple. "Why was it ordered in the
first place?"
Sarmento stood speechless while the envoy spoke rapidly into his ear.
Then he looked back at Arangbar. "Mistakes are always possible,
Majesty. His Excellency wishes to assure you the vessel and all cargo
will be released within two weeks."
"I demand it be released immediately! And damages equal the value of
the cargo brought to me personally." Arangbar's face was livid. "Or he
will never again have a _pice _of trade in an Indian port."
Sarmento turned and translated quickly to the emissary. The
Portuguese's face dropped over his moustache and he hesitantly spoke
something to Sarmento.
"We regret we have no power at this time to authorize a payment for
damages, Majesty. But we assure you His Excellency will . . ."
"Then 'His Excellency' will have no more trade in India." Arangbar
turned, his face overflowing with rage, and shouted to the guards
standing behind him. As they ran to his side he drew his sword and
waved it drunkenly at the emissary, whose face had gone white. "Take
him away."
As the guards seized the terrified Portuguese by the arms, sending his
hat tumbling onto the carpet, he looked imploringly at Nadir Sharif.
But the prime minister's face was a mask. Then Arangbar turned on
Father Sarmento. "If His Excellency has anything else to say to me, he
will say it himself, or he will send someone with the authority to
answer me. I do not receive his _peons_."
Sarmento flinched at the insulting Goan slang for dockhand. "Your
Majesty, again I assure you . . ."
" You will never again assure me of anything. I've listened to your
assurances for years, largely on matters about which you have only
belief, never proof. You assured me of the power of the Christian God,
but never once would you accept the challenge of the Islamic mullahs to
cast a Bible and the Quran into a fire together, to show once and for
all which held sacred truth. But their test is no longer needed. Your
Christian lies are over." Arangbar rose unsteadily from his throne, his
brow harrowed by his fury. "I order your stipend terminated and your
church in Agra closed. And your mission in Lahore. There will never
again be a Christian church in India. Never."
"Your Majesty, there are many Christians in India." Sarmento's voice
was pleading. "They must have a priest, to minister the Holy
Sacrament."
"Then do it in your lodgings. You no longer have a church." Arangbar
settled back on the throne, his anger seeming to overwhelm him. "Never
see me again unless you bring news the ship is released, and my demands
met. Never."
Sarmento watched in horror as Arangbar dismissed him with a gesture of
his arm. The old Jesuit turned and moved trembling into the crowd that
had pushed around the sides of the pavilion. As he passed by
Hawksworth, he suddenly stopped.
"This was all because of you." His voice quivered. "I learned of this
only today from my foolish prodigal, Pinheiro. May God have mercy on
you, heretic. You and your accomplices have destroyed all His work in
India."
As Hawksworth tried to find an answer he heard a drunken shout.
"Inglish! What are you doing here? Come forward and explain yourself."
He looked up to see Arangbar motioning at him.
"Are you deaf? Come forward." Arangbar glared mischievously. "Why are
you still in Agra? We were told we sent you away, almost a week ago. I
think I may decide to have you and every other Christian in India
hanged."
"May it please Your Majesty, I came to request an audience." Hawksworth
moved quickly forward, past the confused guards, carrying the package
he had brought.
"And what have you stolen of ours, Inglish? Have you come now to tell
us it was all a mistake, before I order your hand cut off?"
"Englishmen are not Portugals, Your Majesty. We do not take what is not
our own. What have I ever taken that Your Majesty did not freely give?"
"It's true what you say, Inglish. You are not a Portuguese." Arangbar
suddenly beamed as a thought flashed through his eyes. "Tell me,
Inglish, will your king destroy their fleets for me now?"
"Why would he do so, Your Majesty? You have denied him the right to
trade; you have refused to grant the _firman _he requested."
"Not if he will rout the Portuguese infidels from our seas, Inglish.
They are a pestilence, a plague, that sickens all it touches." Arangbar
waved in the direction of a eunuch, ordering wine for himself. "You
deceived me once, Inglish, but you did not rob me. Perhaps we will have
you stay here a few days longer."
"I have already made preparations to depart, Your Majesty, on your
orders."
"You cannot travel without our permission, Inglish. We still rule
India, despite what the Portuguese Viceroy may think." Arangbar paused
and drank thirstily from the glass of wine. "So why did you want an
audience, Inglish, if you were planning to leave?"
Hawksworth paused, thinking of the decision he had made, wondering
again if there was a chance.
"I've come to make a trifling request of Your Majesty." He moved
forward and bowed, presenting his parcel, the obligatory gift.
"What's this have you brought us, Inglish?"
"May it please Your Majesty, after settling my accounts in Agra, I have
no money remaining to purchase gifts worthy of Your Majesty. I have
only this remaining. I offer it to Your Majesty, in hopes you will
understand its unworthiness in your eyes is matched only by its
unequaled value to me. It is my treasure. I have had it by my side for
over twenty years, at sea and on land."
Arangbar accepted the parcel with curiosity and flipped aside the
velvet wrap. An English lute sparkled against the sunshine.
"What is this, Inglish?" Arangbar turned it in his hand, examining the
polished cedar staves that curved to form its melon-shaped back.
"An instrument of England, Your Majesty, which we hold in the same
esteem you grant your Indian sitar."
"This is a curious toy, Inglish. It has so few strings." He examined it
a moment longer, then turned to Hawksworth. "Do you yourself play this
instrument?"
"I do, Your Majesty."
"Then we will hear it." Arangbar passed the lute back to Hawksworth,
while the nobles around them buzzed in astonishment.
Hawksworth cradled it against him. The feel of its body flooded him
with sadness as he realized he would never play it again. Memories of
London, Tunis, Gibraltar, a dozen cabins and lodgings, flooded over
him. He inhaled deeply and began a short suite by Dowland. It was the
one he had played for Shirin that afternoon so long ago in the
observatory in Surat.
The clear notes flooded the canopied pavilion with their rich full
voice, then drifted outward into the square, settling silence in their
path. The suite was melancholy, a lament of lost love and beauty, and
Hawksworth found his own eyes misting as he played. When he reached the
end, the last crisp note died into a void that seemed to be his own
heart. He held the lute a moment longer, then turned to pass it back to
Arangbar.
The Moghul's eyes seemed to be misting as well.
"I have never heard anything quite like it, Inglish. It has a sadness
we never hear in a raga. Why have you never played for us before?"
"Your Majesty has musicians of your own."
"But no instrument like this, Inglish. Will you have your king send us
one?"
"But I have given you mine, Majesty."
Arangbar examined the lute once more, then looked at Hawksworth and
smiled. "But if I keep this instrument now, Inglish, I will most
probably forget by tomorrow where I have put it." He winked at
Hawksworth and handed back the lute. "Have your king send us one,
Inglish, and a teacher to instruct our musicians."
Hawksworth could not believe what he was hearing. "I humbly thank Your
Majesty. I . . ."
"Now what was it you came to ask of us, Inglish?" Arangbar continued to
study the lute as he sipped from his wine. "Ask it quickly."
"Merely a trifling indulgence of Your Majesty."
"Then tell us what it is, Inglish." Arangbar turned and searched the
square with his eyes, as though monitoring the state of preparations.
Hawksworth cleared his throat and tried to still his pulse. "Your
Majesty's release of the Persian woman Shirin, who is guilty of no
crime against Your Majesty."
Arangbar's smile faded as he turned back to Hawksworth.
"We have not yet decided her fate, Inglish. She does not concern you."
"May it please Your Majesty, she concerns me very much. I come to ask
Your Majesty's permission to make her my wife, and to take her back to
England with me, if Your Majesty will release her. She will be gone
from India soon, and will trouble Your Majesty no further."
"But we just told you you are not returning, Inglish. Not until we
permit it." He grinned. "You must stay and play this instrument for us
more."
"Then I beg that her life be spared until the time I am allowed to
leave."
Arangbar studied Hawksworth and a grudging smile played on his lips.
"You are an excellent judge of women, Inglish. Perhaps too much so. I
suspected it the first time I saw you."
"She wishes no ill toward Your Majesty. There is no purpose in taking
her life."
"How do you know what she wishes for us, Inglish? I think we know
better than you." Arangbar paused to sip again from his wine cup. "But
we will spare her for now, if your king will agree to send warships to
drive the infidel Portuguese from our shores. And if you will agree to
play more for me."
"Will Your Majesty order her release?"
"I will move her to my _zenana_ for now, Inglish. Until matters are
settled, I will order her brought with us to Fatehpur. That is my part
of the bargain. What will you do about yours?"
"I will inform my king of Your Majesty's wishes."
"And he will comply, if he wants to trade in India." Arangbar turned to
Nadir Sharif. "Order a horse for the Inglish. He will ride with us
today. And have the woman Shirin sent to the _zenana_."
Nadir Sharif bowed and edged next to Arangbar, adopting a confidential
tone.
"If I may be allowed, Your Majesty, you are aware the woman Shirin
would not be entirely welcome in the _zenana _by Her Majesty, Queen
Janahara."
"Her Majesty is not the Moghul of India." Arangbar seemed suddenly
exhilarated by the absence of the queen. "I have ordered it."
"To hear is to obey." Nadir Sharif bowed low, casting a worried glance
toward Hawksworth. "But perhaps it would be equally pleasing to Your
Majesty . . . and to Her Majesty as well . . . to allow the woman to
travel to Fatehpur under the cognizance of the English ambassador."
Arangbar glanced toward the palace, and his exhilaration seemed to
dissolve as suddenly as it had come. "Until Fatehpur, then. After that
we will decide where she will be kept until the Inglish satisfies his
part of the bargain." Arangbar turned to Hawksworth. "Agreed, Inglish?"
"I bow to Your Majesty's will."
"_Durbar_ is concluded." Arangbar rose by himself and moved to the edge
of the tent pavilion. As the trumpets and drums again sounded, the
fanning eunuchs scurried to stay beside him. He stepped into the
sunshine, stared about the square for a moment, then turned to Nadir
Sharif.
"Order everyone cleared and the women brought. I am suddenly growing
weary of Agra."
Nadir Sharif bowed again and spoke quickly to the captain of the guard.
As the order was circulated, he quietly moved next to Hawksworth.
"So it seems your luck changed after all, Ambassador. For now. But I
fear it may not last. As a friend I suggest you make the most of it."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The dark sky had begun to show pale in the east, heralding the
first traces of day. Hawksworth stood in the shadows of his tent, at
the edge of the vast Imperial camp, and pulled his frayed leather
jerkin tighter against the cold. He watched as the elephants filed
past, bulky silhouettes against the dawn. They were being led from the
temporary stables on the hill behind him toward the valley below, where
cauldrons of water were being stoked for their morning bath. Heating
the water for the elephant baths had become routine during the reign of
Akman, who had noticed his elephants shivering from their baths on
chilly mornings and decreed their bath water warmed henceforth.
As he watched the line of giant animals winding their way through the
camp, waving their trunks in the morning air, he realized they were not
docile female _zenana _elephants, but male war elephants, first and
second rank.
First-ranked war elephants, called "full blood," were selected from
young males who had demonstrated the endurance and even temper
essential in battle; those granted Second Rank, called "tiger-seizing,"
were slightly smaller, but with the same temperament and strength. Each
elephant had five keepers and was placed under the training of a
special military superintendent--whose responsibility was to school the
animal in boldness amid artillery fire. The keepers were monitored
monthly by Imperial inspectors, who fined them a month's wages if their
elephant had noticeably lost weight. Should an elephant lose a tusk
through its keepers' inattention to an infection, they were fined one
eighth the value of the animal, and if an elephant died in their care,
they received a penalty of three months' wages and a year's suspension.
But the position of elephant keeper was a coveted place of great
responsibility. A well-trained war elephant could be valued at a
hundred thousand rupees, a full _lakh_, and experienced commanders had
been known to declare one good elephant worth five hundred horses in a
battle.
Hawksworth studied the elephants, admiring their disciplined stride and
easy footing, and wondered again why the army had stationed its stables
so near the Imperial camp. Did Arangbar somehow feel he needed
protection?
"They're magnificent, don't you think?" Shirin emerged from her tent to
join him, absently running her hand across the back of his jerkin. It
had been six days since they had left Agra, and it seemed to Hawksworth
she had grown more beautiful each day, more loving each night. The
nightmare of the past weeks had already faded to a distant memory. She
was fully dressed now, with a transparent scarf pinned to her dark hair
by a band of pearls, thick gold bracelets, flowered trousers beneath a
translucent skirt, and dark _kohl _highlighting her eyes and eyebrows.
He watched, enthralled as she pulled a light cloak over her shoulders.
"Especially in the morning. They say Akman used to train his royal
elephants to dance to music, and to shoot a bow."
"I don't think I'll ever get used to elephants." Hawksworth admired her
a moment longer in the dawn light, then looked back at the immense
forms lumbering past, trying to push aside the uneasy feeling their
presence gave him. "You'd be very amused to hear what people in London
think they're like. Nobody there has ever seen an elephant, but there
are lots of fables about them. It's said elephants won't ford a clear
stream during the day, because they're afraid of their reflection, so
they only cross streams at night."
Shirin laughed out loud and reached to kiss him quickly on the cheek.
"I never know whether to believe your stories of England."
"I swear it."
"And the horse-drawn coaches you told me about. Describe one again."
"It has four wheels, instead of two like your carts have, and it really
is pulled by horses, usually two but sometimes four. It's enclosed and
inside there are seats and cushions . . . almost like a palanquin."
"Does that mean your king's _zenana _women all ride in these strange
coaches, instead of on elephants?"
"In the first place, King James has no _zenana_. I don't think he'd
know what to do with that many women. And there are absolutely no
elephants in England. Not even one."
"Can you possibly understand how hard it is for me to imagine a place
without elephants and _zenanas_?" She looked at him and smiled. "And no
camels either?"
"No camels. But we have lots of stories about camels too. Tell me, is
it true that if you're poisoned, you can be put inside a newly slain
camel and it will draw out the poison?"
Shirin laughed again and looked up the hill toward the stables, where
pack camels were being fed and massaged with sesame oil. The bells on
their chest ropes sounded lightly as their keepers began harnessing
them, in strings of five. Hawksworth turned to watch as the men began
fitting two of the camels to carry a _mihaffa_, a wooden turret
suspended between them by heavy wooden poles. All the camels were
groaning pitifully and biting at their keepers, their customary
response to the prospect of work.
"That sounds like some tale you'd hear in the bazaar. Why should a dead
camel draw out poison?" She turned back to Hawksworth. "Sometimes you
make the English sound awfully naive. Tell me what it's really like
there."
"It is truly beautiful. The fairest land there is, especially in the
late spring and early summer, when it's green and cool." Hawksworth
watched the sun emerge from behind a distant hill, beginning to blaze
savagely against the parched winter landscape almost the moment it
appeared. Thoughts of England suddenly made him long for shade, and he
took Shirin's arm, leading her around the side of their rise and back
into the morning cool. Ahead of them lay yet another bleak valley,
rocky and sere. "I sometimes wonder how you can survive here in summer.
It was already autumn when I made landfall and the heat was still
unbearable."
"Late spring is even worse than summer. At least in summer there's
rain. But we're accustomed to the heat. We say no _feringhi _ever gets
used to it. I don't think anyone from your England could ever really
love or understand India."
"Don't give up hope yet. I'm starting to like it." He took her chin in
his hand and carefully studied her face with a scrutinizing frown, his
eyes playing critically from her eyes to her mouth to her vaguely
aquiline Persian nose. "What part do I like best?" He laughed and
kissed the tip of her nose. "I think it's the diamond you wear in your
left nostril."
"All women wear those!" She bit at him. "So I have to also. But I've
never liked it. You'd better think of something else."
He slipped his arm around her and held her next to him, wondering if he
should tell her of his bargain with Arangbar--that she had been released
only because he had offered to take her from India forever. For a
moment the temptation was powerful, but he resisted. Not yet. Don't
give her a chance to turn headstrong and refuse.
"You know, I think you'd like England once you saw it. Even with no
elephants, and no slaves to fan away the flies. We're not as primitive
as you seem to imagine. We have music, and if you'd learn our language,
you might discover England has many fine poets."
"Like the one you once recited for me?" She turned to face him. "What
was his name?"
"That was John Donne. I hear he's a cleric now, so I doubt he's writing
his randy poems and songs any more. But there
are others. Like Sir Walter Raleigh, a staunch adventurer who writes
passable verse, and there's also Ben Jonson, who writes poems, and
plays also. In fact, lots of English plays are in verse."
"What do you mean by plays?"
"English plays. They're like nothing else in the world." He stared
wistfully into the parched valley spread out before them. "Sometimes I
think they're what I miss most about London when I'm away."
"Well, what are they?"
"They're stories that are acted out by players. In playhouses."
She laughed. "Then perhaps you should begin by explaining a playhouse."
"The best one is the Globe, which is just across the Thames from
London, in the Bankside edge of Southwark, near the bridge. It was
built by some merchants and by an actor from Stratford-up-on-Avon, who
also writes their plays. It's three stories high and circular, with
high balconies. And there's a covered stage at one side, where the
players perform."
"Do the women in these plays dance, like our _devadasis_?"
"Actually the players are all men. Sometimes they take the roles of
women, but I've never seen them dance all that much. There are plays
about famous English kings, and sometimes there are stories of thwarted
love, usually set in Italy. Plays are a new thing in England, and
there's nothing like them anywhere else."
Shirin settled against a boulder and watched the shadows cast by the
rising sun stretch out across the valley. She sat thoughtfully for a
moment and then she laughed. "What would you say if I told you India
had dramas about kings and thwarted love over a thousand years ago?
They were in Sanskrit, and they were written by men named Bhavabhuti
and Bhasa and Kalidasa, whose lives are legends now. A pandit, that's
the title Hindus give their scholars, once told me about a play called
The Clay Cart. It was about a poor king who fell in love with a rich
courtesan. But there are no plays here now, unless you count the dance
dramas they have in the south. Sanskrit is a dead language, and Muslims
don't really care for plays."
"I'll wager you'd like the plays in London. They're exciting, and
sometimes the poetry can be very moving."
"What's it like to go to see one?"
"First, on the day a play is performed they fly a big white banner of
silk from a staff atop the Globe, and you can see it all over London.
The admission is only a penny for old plays and two pence for new ones.
That's all you ever have to pay if you're willing to stand in the pit.
If you want to pay a little more, you can get a seat in the galleries
around the side, up out of the dust and chips, and for a little extra
you can get a cushion for the seat. Or for sixpence you can enter
directly through the stage door and sit in a stall at the side of the
stage. Just before the play begins there's a trumpet fanfare-- like
Arangbar has when he enters the _Diwan-i-Am_--and the doorkeepers pass
through the galleries to collect the money."
"What do they do with it?"
"They put it into a locked box," Hawksworth grinned, "which wags have
taken to calling the box office, because they're so officious about it.
But the money's perfectly safe. Plays are in the afternoon, while
there's daylight."
"But aren't they performed inside this building?" Shirin seemed to be
only half listening.
"The Globe has an open roof except over the stage. But if it gets too
dull on winter afternoons, they light the stage with torches of burning
pitch or tar."
"Who exactly goes to these playhouses?"
"Everyone. Except maybe the Puritans. Anybody can afford a penny. And
the Globe is not that far from the Southwark bear gardens, so a lot of
people come after they've been to see bearbaiting. The pit is usually
full of rowdy tradesmen, who stand around the stage and turn the air
blue with tobacco smoke."
"So high-caste women and women from good families wouldn't go."
"Of course women go." Hawksworth tried unsuccessfully to suppress a
smile. "There are gallants in London who'll tell you the Globe is the
perfect place to spot a comely wench, or even a woman of fashion
looking for some sport while her husband's drunk at a gaming house."
"I don't believe such things happen."
"Well that's the way it is in England." Hawksworth settled against the
boulder. "You have to understand women there don't let themselves be
locked up and hidden behind veils. So if a cavalier spies a comely
woman at the Globe, he'll find a way to praise her dress, or her
figure, and then he'll offer to sit next to her, you know, just to make
sure some rude fellow doesn't trod on the hem of her petticoats with
muddy boots, and no chips fall in her lap. Then after the play begins,
he'll buy her a bag of roasted chestnuts, or maybe some oranges from
one of the orange-wenches walking through the galleries. And if she
carries on with him a bit, he'll offer to squire her home."
"I suppose you've done just that?" She examined him in dismay.
Hawksworth shifted, avoiding her gaze. "I've mainly heard of it."
"Well, I don't enjoy hearing about it. What about the honor of these
women's families? They sound reprehensible, with less dignity than
_nautch _girls."
"Oh no, they're very different." He turned with a wink and tweaked her
ear. "They don't dance."
"That's even worse. At least most _nautch _girls have some training."
"You already think English women are wicked, and you've never even met
one. That's not fair. But I think you'd come to love England. If we
were in London now, right this minute, we could hire one of those
coaches you don't believe exist . . . a coach with two horses and a
coachman cost scarcely more than ten shillings a day, if prices haven't
gone up . . . and ride out to a country inn. Just outside London the
country is as green as Nadir Sharif's palace garden, with fields and
hedgerows that look like a great patchwork coverlet sewed by some
sotted alewife." Hawksworth's chest tightened with homesickness. "If
you want to look like an Englishwoman, you could powder your breasts
with white lead, and rouge your nipples, and maybe paste some beauty
stars on your cheeks. I'll dine you on goose and veal and capon and
nappy English ale. And English mutton dripping with more fat than any
lamb you'll taste in Agra."
Shirin studied him silently for a moment. "You love to talk of England,
don't you? But I'd rather you talked about India. I want you to stay.
Why would you ever want to leave?"
"I'm trying to tell you you'd love England if you gave yourself a
chance. I'll have the _firman _soon, and when I return the East India
Company will . . ."
"Arangbar will never sign a _firman _for the English king to trade.
Don't you realize Queen Janahara will never allow it?"
"Right now I'm less worried about the queen than about Jadar. I think
he wants to stop the _firman _too, why I don't know, but he's succeeded
so far. He almost stopped it permanently with his false rumor about the
fleet. He did it deliberately to raise Arangbar's hopes and then
disappoint him, with the blame falling on me. Who knows what he'll
think to do next?"
"You're so wrong about him. That had nothing to do with you. Don't you
understand why he had to do that? You never once asked me."
Hawksworth stared at her. "Tell me why."
"To divert the Portuguese fleet. It's so obvious. He somehow discovered
Queen Janahara had paid the Portuguese Viceroy to ship cannons to Malik
Ambar. If the Marathas had gotten cannon, they could have defended
Ahmadnagar forever. So he tricked the Portuguese into searching for the
English fleet that wasn't there. The Portuguese are a lot more worried
about their trade monopoly than about what happens to Prince Jadar. He
knew they would be."
"I know you support him, but for my money he's still a certified
bastard." Hawksworth studied her for a moment, wondering whether to
believe her words. If it were actually true it would all make sense,
would fill out a bizarre tapestry of palace deception. But in the end
his ruse had done Jadar no good. "And for all his scheming, he was
still defeated in the south. I hear the rumors too." Hawksworth rose
and took Shirin's arm. She started to reply, then stopped herself.
They began to walk slowly back toward his tent. "So he deceived
everyone to no purpose."
As they rounded the curve of the slope and emerged into the sunshine,
Hawksworth noted that some of the war elephants had already been led
back to their stables and were being harnessed. He looked across the
valley toward the tents of the Imperial army and thought he sensed a
growing urgency in the air, as though men and horse were being quietly
mobilized to move out.
"But don't you realize? The prince is not retreating." Shirin finally
seized his arm and stopped him. "No one here yet realizes that Malik
Ambar has . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked ahead. A group of
Rajput officers was loitering, aimlessly, near the entrance to her
tent. "I wish I could tell you now what's happening." Her voice grew
quieter. "Just be ready to ride."
Hawksworth stared at her, uncomprehending. "Ride where?" He reached to
touch her hand, but she glanced at the Rajputs and quickly pulled it
away. "I don't want to ride anywhere. I want to tell you more about
England. Don't you think you'd like to see it someday?"
"I don't know. Perhaps." She shifted her gaze away from the Rajputs.
For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw her make a quick movement with
her hands urging them to leave. Or had she? They casually moved on down
the hill, their rhino-hide shields swinging loosely from their shoulder
straps. "After . . . after things are settled."
"After what? After Arangbar signs the _firman_?"
"I can't seem to make you understand." She turned to face him squarely.
"About Prince Jadar. Even if you got a _firman _it would soon be
worthless."
"I understand this much. If he's thinking to challenge Arangbar, and
the queen, then he's God's own fool. Haven't you seen the army
traveling with us? It's three times the size of Jadar's." He turned and
continued to walk. "His Imperial Majesty may be a sot, but he's in no
peril from young Prince Jadar."
As they approached the entrance to his tent, she paused for a moment to
look at him, her eyes a mixture of longing and apprehension.
"I can't stay now. Not today." She kissed him quickly and before he
could speak she was moving rapidly down the hill, in the direction the
Rajputs had gone.
Queen Janahara studied Allaudin thoughtfully as he strode toward her
tent. His floral turban was set rakishly to one side in the latest
style, and his purple gauze cloak was too effeminate for anyone but a
eunuch or a dandy. She caught a flash from the jewel-handled katar at
his waist, too ornamental ever to be used, and suddenly realized that
she had never seen him actually hold a knife, or a sword. She had never
seen him respond to any crisis. And Princess Layla had hinted he was
not quite the husband she had envisioned, whatever that might imply.
Suddenly it all mattered. It had only been a week since Jadar's demands
had been refused, and already he had taken the initiative. Now, she
sighed, she would have to protect her _nashudani_, her "good-for-
nothing" son-in-law. He could never protect himself, not from Jadar.
"Your Majesty." Allaudin salaamed formally as he dipped below the
tapestried portiere of her tent, never forgetting that his new mother-
in-law was also the queen. "The princess sends her wishes for your
health this morning."
"Sit down." Janahara continued to examine him with her brooding dark
eyes. "Where is Nadir Sharif?"
"The eunuchs said he would be a few moments late."
"He always tries to irritate me." Her voice trailed off as she watched
Allaudin ensconce himself with a wide flourish against a velvet
bolster. "Tell me, are you content with your bride?"
"She is very pleasing to me, Majesty."
"Are you satisfying your obligations as a husband?"
"Majesty?" Allaudin looked up at her as though not comprehending the
question.
"Your duties are not merely to her. Or to me. They're also to India.
Jadar has a male heir now. Such things matter in Agra, or weren't you
aware?"
Allaudin giggled. "I visit her tent every night, Majesty."
"But for what purpose? After you're drunk and you've spent yourself
with a _nautch _dancer. Don't deny it. I know it's true. Do you forget
she has servants? There are no secrets in this camp. I think you'll
sooner sire an heir on a slave girl than on my daughter. I will not
have it."
"Majesty." Allaudin twisted uncomfortably and glanced up with relief to
see Nadir Sharif pushing aside the portiere of the tent. As he entered,
Janahara motioned toward the servants and eunuchs waiting in attendance
and in moments they had disappeared through the curtained doorways at
the rear.
"You're late."
"My sincerest apologies, Majesty. There are endless matters to attend.
You know His Majesty still holds morning _darshan _from his tent, and
has two _durbar _audiences a day. The difficulties . . ."
"Your 'difficulties' are only beginning." She was extracting a dispatch
from a gilded bamboo tube. "Read this."
Nadir Sharif took the document and moved into the light at the
entrance. He had always despised the red chintz tents of the Imperial
family, whose doorways were forever sealed with Persian hangings that
kept in all the smoke and lamp soot. As he studied the dispatch he
moved even closer to the light, astonishment growing in his eyes. He
read it through twice before turning back to Janahara.
"Has His Majesty seen this yet?"
"Of course not. But he will have to eventually."
"Who is it from?" Allaudin stared up from the bolster, his voice
uneasy.
"Your brother." Janahara studied him with eyes verging on contempt.
"Jadar has declared he is no longer under the authority of the Moghul."
She paused to make sure the news had reached Allaudin. "Do you
understand what that means? Jadar has rebelled. He's probably marching
on Agra right now with his army."
"That's impossible! As long as His Majesty lives . . ."
"Jadar has declared His Majesty is no longer fit to reign. He has
offered to assume the 'burden' himself. It's a preposterous affront to
legitimate rule."
"Then he must be brought to Agra for trial." Allaudin's voice swelled
with determination.
"Obviously." Nadir Sharif moved toward the door of the tent and stared
into the sunshine for a long moment. Then he turned to Janahara. "We
have no choice now but to send the Imperial army. Your intuition about
Jadar last week was all too correct."
"And now you agree? After a week has been lost." Janahara had followed
him with her eyes. "Now you concede that the army must move."
"There's nothing else to be done." Nadir Sharif seemed to study the
parched landscape of the valley below. "Although containing Jadar may
well be more difficult than we first assumed."
"Why should it be difficult?" Allaudin watched Nadir Sharif in
bewilderment. "His forces were very small to begin with. And after his
defeat by Malik Ambar, how many men and cavalry can he have left?"
"Perhaps you should read the dispatch." Nadir Sharif tossed the
scrolled paper into Allaudin's lap. "Jadar never engaged Malik Ambar.
Instead he forged an alliance. It would appear his 'retreat' north to
Burhanpur was merely a ruse. He never met the Maratha armies in the
first place, so he did not lose a single infantryman. Instead he
intimidated Malik Ambar and struck a truce with him. There's no knowing
how large his army is now, or even where he is. This dispatch came from
Mandu, so he's already well on his way north. I think he'll probably
lay siege to Agra within two weeks if he's not stopped."
"Merciful Allah." Allaudin's voice was suddenly tremulous. "What do we
do?" Then he looked imploringly at Janahara. "I'll lead the army myself
if you want."
Janahara seemed not to hear him as she rose and walked toward the door
of the tent. Nadir Sharif stepped aside as she shoved back the tapestry
and stared out into the valley.
"This morning I ordered Inayat Latif to mobilize and march."
"Without telling His Majesty!" Nadir Sharif stared at her
incredulously.
"I ordered it in his name. I suspected something like this might
happen, so I had him sign and stamp the order four days ago."
"Was His Majesty entirely sob . . ." Nadir Sharif hesitated. "Was he in
full understanding of what he was authorizing?"
"That hardly matters now. But you must place the seal you keep on the
order also before it's forwarded to the _wazir _to be officially
recorded." She did not shift her gaze from the sunlit valley. "It's on
the table behind you."
Nadir Sharif turned and stared down at the gold-inlaid stand. The order
was there, a single folded piece of paper inside a gilded leather
cover. The string which would secure it had not yet been tied.
"You were wise to have taken this precaution, Majesty." Nadir Sharif
glanced back at Janahara, his voice flowing with admiration. "There's
no predicting His Majesty's mind these days. Only yesterday I
discovered he had completely forgotten . . ."
"Have you stamped it?"
"My seal is not here, Majesty." He paused. "And I was wondering . . .
would it be wise to review our strategy briefly with His Majesty, lest
he become confused later and forget he authorized the order? Perhaps
even countermand it?"
"Your seal will be sufficient. It's in the pocket of your cloak where
you always carry it, the pocket on the left."
"Your Majesty's memory is astonishing sometimes." Nadir Sharif quickly
extracted the metal case, flipped off the cover, and with a flourish
imprinted the black Seal of the Realm on the top of the order, beneath
Arangbar's signature and the impression of his royal signet ring. "When
will the army be able to move?"
"Tomorrow. Most of the elephants are moving out this morning." Janahara
turned back and glanced at the paper with satisfaction. "And tomorrow
we will all return to Agra. The plague is subsiding, and I think His
Majesty should be in the fort."
"I agree entirely. Has it been ordered?"
"I will order it later today. Jadar cannot move his army that rapidly."
"I will begin preparations to go with the army." Allaudin rose and
adjusted the jeweled katar at his belt.
"You will be returning to the Red Fort, with His Majesty and with me."
Janahara did not look at him as she spoke.
"But 1 want to face Jadar. I insist." He tightened his gauze cloak. "I
will demand an audience with His Majesty if you refuse."
Janahara studied him silently for a moment. "I have an even better
idea. Since Jadar has refused to lead the army to defend the fortress
at Qandahar, how would you like to be appointed in his place?"
Allaudin's eyes brightened. "What rank would I have?"
"I think we can persuade His Majesty to raise your personal rank to
twelve thousand _zat _and your horse rank to eight thousand _suwar_,
twice what you have now."
"Then I will go." Allaudin tightened his cloak, beaming. "I'll drive
the Safavid king's Persian troops back into the desert."
"You are as sensible as you are brave. I will speak to His Majesty
tonight."
Allaudin grinned a parting salaam, squared his shoulders, and pushed
his way through the portiere and into the sunshine. Nadir Sharif
watched without a word until he had disappeared into his own tent.
"Was that entirely wise, Majesty?"
"What else do you propose we do? It will keep him in Agra. I'll see to
that. You don't really think I'd allow him to leave? Anyway, it's time
his rank was elevated. Now all he needs is a son."
"I'm sure he'll have one in time, Majesty. The Hindu astrologers all
say Princess Layla's horoscope is favorable."
"The Hindu astrologers may have to help him do a husband's work if they
want to save their reputation."
"Give him time, Majesty." Nadir Sharif smiled. "And he'll have more
heirs than the Holy Prophet."
"All the Prophet's children were daughters." She took the paper,
inserted it into the gold case, and began tying the string. "There are
times you do not entirely amuse me."
"I'm always half distracted by worrying." Nadir Sharif followed her
with his eyes. "Even now."
"What in particular worries you at the moment?" Janahara paused as she
was slipping the case into her sleeve.
"I'm thinking just now about the Imperial army. The loyalty of some of
the men."
"What do you mean? Inayat Latif is entirely beholden to His Majesty. He
would gladly give his life for the Moghul. I've heard it from his own
lips, and I know it's true."
"I've never questioned your commander's loyalty. But now you . . . His
Majesty will be ordering the men to march against Jadar. Are you aware
that fully a third of the army is under Rajput field commanders,
officers from the northwest. Some of the rajas there still bear ill
feelings toward His Majesty, because of Inayat Latifs campaign there
ten years ago. These Rajputs sometimes have long memories. And who
knows what Jadar could be promising them? Remember his treachery with
Malik Ambar."
"What are you suggesting? That the Rajput commanders will not fight for
His Majesty, the legitimate Moghul? That's absurd. No one respects
authority more than the Rajput rajas."
"I'm not suggesting it at all. But I do believe the Rajputs here should
be monitored closely nonetheless. Any discontent should be addressed
before it grows . . . unwieldy. Perhaps their commanders should be
placed under a separate authority, someone who could reason with them
in His Majesty's name if there are signs of unrest. Inayat Latif is an
able general, but he's no diplomat."
Janahara studied him closely. "Do you believe there would be unrest?"
"Your Majesty is perhaps not always fully informed as to the activities
of some of the more militant Rajput loyalists. I have ordered them
watched at all times."
"What are you suggesting then? That the Rajputs should be placed under
a separate top command? Some raja whose loyalty is unquestionable?"
"I'm suggesting precisely that. If there were extensive defections, it
would be demoralizing for the rest of the army, at the very least."
"Who do you propose?"
"There are any number of Rajput commanders I would trust. To a point.
But it's always difficult to know where their final loyalties lie."
Nadir Sharif paused, lost in thought. "Perhaps an alternate solution
might be to allow someone of unquestioned loyalty to monitor the Rajput
field commanders, someone experienced in handling Rajput concerns,
though not necessarily a general. Then the command could remain
unified, with orders passing through this other individual, who would
ensure compliance."
"Again, is there someone you would recommend?"
"There are several men near His Majesty who could serve. It is, of
course, essential their loyalty to you be beyond question. In a way
it's a pity Prince Allaudin is not . . . older. Blood is always best."
"That leaves only you, or Father, who is far too old."
"My responsibilities here would really make it impossible for me."
Nadir Sharif turned and walked again to the door of the tent, pulling
back the portiere. "Certainly I could not leave His Majesty for an
extended campaign."
"But if the campaign were short?"
"Perhaps for a few weeks."
Janahara studied him silently, her thoughts churning. At times even
Nadir Sharif's loyalty seemed problematical. But now there was a
perfect way to test it in advance . . .
"I will advise Inayat Latif you are now in charge of the Rajput
commanders."
"Your Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed lightly. "I'm honored by your
confidence."
"I'm sure it's well placed." She did not smile. "But before I make the
arrangements, there's one other assignment for you. Totally
confidential."
"Anything within my power." Nadir Sharif bowed elegantly.
"Tonight I want you to order the Imperial guards stationed in your
compound to execute the Englishman and the woman Shirin. On your sole
authority."
"Of course." Nadir Sharifs smile did not flicker.
Hawksworth finally returned to his compound near midnight, carrying his
empty flask of brandy. He had wandered the length of the chaotic tent
city searching for Shirin. Over the past five hours he had combed the
wide streets of the bazaar, searched through the half-empty elephant
stables, and circled the high chintz border of the Imperial enclosure.
The periphery of the camp swarmed with infantrymen and their wives
gathering supplies for the march, and already there had been numerous
fights in the bazaar, where prices had soared after the announcement
the army would march.
As he neared his tent, he looked up at the stars, brilliant even
through the lingering evening smoke from the cooking fires, and mused
about Jadar. The rebel prince would soon be facing Inayat Latif, just
recalled to Agra two months earlier after a brutally successful
campaign in Bengal extending the Imperial frontier against local Hindu
chieftains. Inayat Latif was a fifty-five-year-old veteran commander
who revered the Moghul and would do anything in his power to protect
him. Although he had made no secret of his dislike of the "Persian
junta," he shared their common alarm at the threat of Jadar's
rebellion. It was Arangbar he would be fighting to defend, not the
queen.
The Imperial army is invincible now, Hawksworth told himself, its
cavalry outnumbers Jadar's easily three to one, and its officers are at
full strength. There are at least a hundred and fifty thousand men
ready to march. How many can Jadar have? Fifty thousand? Perhaps less.
Jadar can never meet them. The most he can possibly do is skirmish and
retreat.
Perhaps, he thought ruefully, it was all just as well. A decisive
defeat for Jadar would _Resolve_ the paralysis at court, and the
indecision in Shirin's mind. She would realize finally that Jadar had
attempted to move too fast.
The mission might still be saved. With the Portuguese resistance
neutralized--there were even rumors that Arangbar had ordered Father
Sarmento back to Goa--there would be no voices in Agra to poison
Arangbar's mind daily against the _firman _for King James. After all,
he asked himself, who else could Arangbar turn to? England alone has
the naval strength to challenge Portugal, even if it might require
years to break their monopoly completely. He would bargain for a
_firman _in exchange for a vague promise of King James's help against
the Portuguese. It was a bargain England surely could keep. Eventually.
He slipped through the doorway of his tent and groped for the lamp, an
open bronze dish of oil with a wick protruding through the spout. It
rested where he had left it, on a stand near his sea chest, and he
sparked a flint against the wick. Suddenly the striped cotton walls of
the tent glowed around him. He removed the sword at his belt and
slipped it onto the carpet. Then he removed his leather jerkin and
dropped against a bolster, still puzzling about Shirin.
Her status during the past few days had been ambiguous. As a divorced
Muslim woman, she was free to move about as she chose. But everyone
knew she was on very uncertain terms with the Moghul. After they had
arrived outside the western wall of the old city of Fatehpur, Arangbar
had been too preoccupied to remember his threat to move her into the
_zenana_. She had remained free, able to move inconspicuously about the
camp, mingling with the other Muslim women. And each night, after the
final watch was announced, Hawksworth had been able to slip unnoticed
to her tent. Once, late one night, he had suggested they try to return
to the old palace of Akman, inside the walls of Fatehpur, but they both
finally decided the risk would be too great.
He had hoped the days, and nights, at the camp would bring them closer
together. And in a way they had, although Shirin still seemed to
retreat at times into a special realm of mourning she had devised for
herself. She could never stop remembering Samad and his brutal death.
Something, he told himself, had to change. He had begun to wonder if he
should gamble and tell her of the terms the Moghul had demanded for her
release. Would she then understand she had no choice but to return to
England with him?
He rose and rummaged through his sea chest, finding another bottle of
brandy, almost his last, and to fight his despondency he poured himself
a cup. The liquor burned its way down, like a warm soothing salve, and
he turned to begin assembling his few belongings for packing in the
morning. He had reprimed and loaded his remaining pistol, and now he
laid it on the table beside his chest. Then he drew his sword from its
scabbard to check its edge and the polish on the metal. Holding it to
the lamp, he spotted a few random flecks of rust, and he found a cloth
and burnished them away.
His few clothes were already piled haphazardly in the chest, now
virtually empty save for his lute. He found his leather purse at the
bottom and counted his remaining money. Five hundred rupees. He counted
them twice, beginning to wonder if he might eventually have to walk all
the way back to Surat.
He searched the floor for any stray items, and came across Vasant Rao's
katar caught between the folds of the carpet. It seemed years now since
the Rajput aide of Jadar had slipped it into his hand in the square of
the Diwan-i-Am, and he had almost forgotten he had it. With a smile of
recollection he gingerly slipped it from its brocade sheath and held it
in his hand, puzzling how such a curiously constructed weapon could be
so lethal. The grip was diagonal to the blade, so that it could only be
used to thrust, like a pike head growing out of your fist. Rajputs were
said to kill tigers with only a katar and a leather shield, but he
wasn't sure he believed the stories. He grasped it and made a few trial
thrusts, its ten- inch blade shining in the lamplight like a mirror,
then tossed it atop his sea chest. It would make a nice memento of the
trip; every fighting man in India seemed to carry one. Who in London
would ever believe such a weapon unless they saw it?
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flutter in the portiere of his
tent, and he looked up to see Shirin standing silently in the doorway.
"What . . . ?" He looked up to greet her, unsure whether to betray his
relief by taking her immediately in his arms, or to scold and tease her
a bit first.
She silenced him with a wave of her hand.
"Are you ready?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Ready for what? Where in Christ's name have you been? I've been . . ."
Again she silenced him as she moved inside.
"Are you ready to ride?" She glanced in dismay at the belongings he had
scattered about the tent. "We have to leave now, before dawn."
"Have you gone mad?" He stared at her. "We're returning to Agra day
after tomorrow. The Moghul has . . ."
"We have to leave now, tonight." She examined him in the lamplight,
consternation growing in her eyes. "The prince . . ."
"Jadar is finished." He cut her off. "Don't be a sentimental fool. He
brought this on himself. You can't help him. Nobody can now."
They stood, eyes locked together, for a moment that seemed as long as
eternity. Hawksworth did not move from his place on the carpet.
Gradually her eyes clouded with sorrow, and he thought he saw her begin
to turn.
He was on his feet, seizing her arm, pulling her toward him. "I'm not
letting you die for Jadar. If he's meant to win, he'll do it without
either of . . ."
He sensed a movement in the portiere behind her, and looked up to see
the glint of a sword thrust exactly where she had been standing. She
caught his bewildered look and revolved in time to see the sword slash
through the fringed cloth. An Imperial guard, wearing light chain mail
and a red turban, moved through the doorway, weapon in hand.
"You son of a whore!" Hawksworth reached back for the naked sword lying
on the carpet behind him and grabbed his leather jerkin. Holding the
leather as a shield, he lunged at the attacker.
As Hawksworth's sword thrust reached him, the guard caught the blade
with his own and instinctively parried it aside, throwing Hawksworth
against a tent pole.
As he tried to regain his footing, he heard Shirin cry out and turned
to see a heavy sword cut through the side of the tent behind them,
creating a second opening. A hand ripped away the striped chintz and
another Imperial guard entered, weapon in hand.
"Jesus! Shirin, get back!" Hawksworth shouted in English and shoved her
across his sea chest, sending her tumbling away from the second
attacker. As she fell, he saw her grab the pocket pistol lying on the
table and turn to face the guard approaching her.
Hawksworth felt a blade rip through the jerkin in his hand and tangle
in the leather. He shoved the jerkin and sword aside and cut upward
with his own blade, miraculously imbedding it in the exposed neck of
the turbaned guard. The man yelled out and dropped his weapon, which
slid harmlessly onto the carpet. Then he stumbled and fell forward,
holding his neck. Still incredulous, Hawksworth looked up to see two
more Imperial guards standing in the doorway behind him, both with
drawn swords. As he moved to keep them at bay with his own weapon, he
turned and saw the guard who had entered through the side of the tent
advancing menacingly toward Shirin. Just as the guard raised his
weapon, Hawksworth heard a sharp report, followed by a moan, and
watched the man crumple and fall directly in front of her smoking
pistol.
As he fell, two more guards appeared at the opening behind him and
began pushing their way through.
"Shirin, the lamp!" Again he shouted in English before realizing she
could not understand. Without waiting, he grabbed the open oil lamp and
flung it against the uniforms of the guards, bathing them in burning
oil. Their turbans and hair ignited and they pulled back against the
side of the tent, slapping at the flames.
He turned back to the doorway in time to see the other two
guards coming toward him. As he attempted to parry them away, he found
his feet tangled in the leather jerkin on the carpet and he stumbled
backward, losing his balance long enough for one of the attackers to
bring his sword around with a heavy sweep and knock his own weapon
spinning into the dark recesses of the tent.
As he grabbed a tent pole for balance he suddenly noticed the dark
outline of two more men approaching behind the guards at the door. In
the shadows he could tell they were shirtless, wearing only dirty
loincloths and the gray turbans of servants. They carried no weapons
and had been attracted by the uproar.
Looking quickly around the tent, he noticed the burning outline of his
oil-soaked powder horn lying on the carpet near his feet. He kicked it
toward the approaching guard and as it struck his leg, the cap jarred
free, sending hissing powder flaming through the tent. The man stumbled
backward in surprise and lowered his sword. Just as he did, Hawksworth
saw one of the servants standing at the doorway slip a naked katar from
his loincloth and seize the guard by the neck. He pulled the attacker
around and with a flash of steel gutted him silently with a savage
upward thrust. The other Imperial guard at the doorway turned just in
time to watch the katar drawn by the second servant enter his own
throat.
Hawksworth stared in astonishment, realizing he had never before seen
the two servants. Even now their faces were largely obscured by the
loose ends of their turbans.
He revolved to see the other two guards turning back toward the opening
that had been cut through the side of the tent, still slapping at the
burning oil on their uniforms. As they reached the opening, they seemed
to hesitate momentarily, then stumbled backward. As they sprawled
across the carpet in front of him, their throats cut, he saw two more
grimy servants standing in the opening, holding bloody katars.
The burning oil blazed across the fringe of a carpet and suddenly the
interior of the tent was crisscrossed with fire.
The four alien servants, all still holding katars, seemed to ignore the
flames as they advanced on Shirin and Hawksworth without a word.
He watched them for a moment in horror, then reached and groped blindly
across the top of his sea chest. It was bare. Then he remembered
Shirin's fall and he felt along the carpet behind the chest, next to
where she stood.
Just as the first man reached the edge of the chest, Hawksworth's hand
closed around the handle of his katar.
Jesus, what do they want? Did they kill the Imperial guards so they
could have the pleasure of murdering us themselves?
Bracing himself against the side of the chest, he swung the blade
upward. He still could not see the attacker's face, masked behind the
end of his turban.
The man stepped deftly to the side and caught Hawksworth's wrist in a
grip of iron, laughing out loud.
"Never try to kill a Rajput with his own katar, Captain Hawksworth. He
knows its temperament too well."
Vasant Rao flipped back the ragged end of his turban.
"What the bloody hell. . . !"
"We've been waiting for you by Shirin's tent. It would appear your
welcome here has run out." He glanced mockingly at Shirin. "So much for
your famous Muslim hospitality."
"You know very well who's responsible." Her eyes snapped back at him.
"I can probably guess." Vasant Rao released Hawksworth's wrist and
stared about the burning tent. "Are you ready to ride?"
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"This is hardly the spot for long explanations. The fact is I'm here
tonight to lead some of our friends back to the camp of His Highness,
the prince. And you, if you cared to join us." Vasant Rao signaled the
men around him to move out through the doorway. The smoke was already
growing dense. "I'm afraid your fire has made our departure that much
more difficult. It wasn't a particularly good idea on your part. Now we
have to ride quickly."
"What about all this?" Hawksworth looked about the burning tent. "I
have to . . ."
"Just roll what you need in a carpet. If you're going with us, you'll
have to leave now. Before the entire Imperial army comes to see us
off."
"But who'd want to kill us?" Hawksworth still could not move as he
stared through the smoke.
"Whoever it was, they'll probably succeed if we wait here talking much
longer."
Hawksworth turned on Shirin.
"You knew!"
"I couldn't tell you before. It would have been too dangerous." She
quickly grabbed a carpet from the floor, stamping out the burning
fringe, then flipped open Hawksworth's chest. She grabbed his lute, a
handful of clothes, his boots, his books, and his depleted purse. As he
watched in a daze, she rolled them in the carpet and shoved it into his
hands. He looked around the burning tent one last time and caught the
glint of his sword lying behind a tent pole. He grabbed it, scooped up
his pistol and jerkin, and took Shirin by the arm as they pushed
through the smoke toward the entrance, stepping over the bodies of the
guards as they emerged into the night air.
Ahead, beside Shirin's tent, waited saddled horses and a group of
turbaned riders. As they ran toward the horses, Hawksworth recognized
several Rajputs from Arangbar's private guard among the horsemen.
"We were ready to ride." Vasant Rao seized the rein of one of the
horses and vaulted into the saddle. "You were out walking or we could
have left sooner. Shirin demanded we wait. It was well we did. Lord
Krishna still seems to be watching over you, Captain."
"Which way are we headed?" Hawksworth helped Shirin into a saddle,
watching as she uncertainly grabbed the horn for balance, then, still
clasping the bundle, pulled himself onto a pawing Arabian mare.
"West. The rest of the men are already waiting at the end of the
valley." Vasant Rao whipped his horse and led the way as they galloped
toward the perimeter of the tent city. "This will be a long ride, my
friend."
As Hawksworth watched the last of the tents recede into the
dark, he saw disappearing with them his final chance for a firman. He
would never see Arangbar again. Probably he would never see London
again.
I've traded it all for a woman. And I still wonder if she's mine.
God help me.
BOOK FIVE
PRINCE JADAR
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hawksworth heard the exultant cheer of the Rajputs riding
behind him and snapped awake. It was midmorning of the third day and he
had been dozing fitfully in the saddle since dawn, fatigue deep in his
bones. Through the trees ahead the camp of Prince Jadar lay spread
before them, blanketing half the valley.
"I told you we'd make the camp in three days' ride." Vasant Rao smiled
wearily at Hawksworth and spurred his lathered mount forward. "Every
man with us is eager to be with the prince."
They had covered, it seemed to Hawksworth, well over a hundred miles
since departing the environs of Fatehpur. Between five and six hundred
Rajputs rode behind them, all heavily armed with an array of swords,
pikes, clubs, saddle-axes. Each man's body armor, a woven network of
steel and the quilted garment worn beneath it, was secured behind his
saddle, ready to be donned for combat. Hanging at the side of each
rider was a round leather shield and a large quiver containing his horn
bow and arrows. None carried muskets.
Hawksworth glanced back at Shirin, who rode a few paces behind, and
they shared a tired smile. She had ridden the distance like a Rajput,
but now her eyes were glazed with weariness. He had suddenly realized,
the morning after they all galloped out of the camp at Fatehpur, that
he had never before seen a woman in India ride. Where had she learned?
He had pondered the question for an hour, riding behind her to watch
her easy posture in the saddle, and then he had pulled alongside and
asked her point-blank. She said nothing, merely smiled and tossed the
loose strands of hair back from her face. He understood her well enough
to know this meant she had never ridden before . . . and didn't wish
Vasant Rao to know.
"This is the moment I've waited for so long." She reined her mount
alongside Hawksworth's, reached out and touched his hand. "You must
help the prince now too."
"I'm not so sure I'm eager to die for Prince Jadar."
"You can always go back to Agra. And wait to be murdered by Janahara's
guards. The prince has saved your life, and mine, once already. What
makes you think he'll bother with you again?"
"To tell the truth, he also saved my life several months ago, the night
we made landfall at Surat and were ambushed on the Tapti River by the
Portugals."
"I know." She spurred her horse ahead. "I received the pigeon from
Prince Jadar ordering it. I passed the message to the Shahbandar, Mirza
Nuruddin, who sent his personal Rajputs to protect you."
Hawksworth urged his horse back alongside. "So I was right. You were
one of Jadar's agents in Surat. What did Nadir Sharif once call them .
. . _swanih-nigars_?"
"I gathered information for the prince." She smiled in consent. "I kept
his accounts and coded his ciphers at the old observatory. Then you
came along and started combing through it. You made my work that much
more difficult. I never knew when you'd decide to go out there. Or what
you'd find."
"Why didn't you just tell me? What did I care?"
"Too much was at risk. The prince once said never to trust a
_topiwallah_."
Hawksworth laughed. "But surely Mukarrab Khan knew what you were
doing?"
"I think he probably guessed. But what could he do? He was only the
governor, not Allah. He finally forbade me to go into the palace
grounds alone. When I refused to obey, he thought of sending you to the
observatory, just to annoy me." She smoothed the mane of her horse. "So
I think he knew I was doing something there. But he was too entangled
by his own intrigues for Janahara to really care."
"Mukarrab Khan worked for the queen? How?"
"Two ways. Naturally he gathered intelligence for her, mainly about the
Portuguese. But he also collected her Portuguese revenues at the ports
of Surat and Cambay."
"Her revenues? I thought all duties went to the Moghul's Imperial
treasury."
Shirin stifled a smile. "That's what Arangbar thinks too. And at Surat
it's mostly true. She collects very little. Mirza Nuruddin despises her
and always finds devious ways to muddle her accounts, probably keeping
some of her money for himself. But the Shahbandar at the port of
Cambay, where Mukarrab Khan used to go every two weeks, would accept
bribes from the Portuguese to undervalue their goods, and then split
the money with Mukarrab Khan and Janahara." She paused to watch a
bright-winged bird dart past. "Arangbar could never understand why his
revenue from Cambay was so low. I heard he's thinking about closing the
port." She laughed. "If only he knew it's going mostly to Janahara."
Hawksworth rode silently for a moment, thinking. "You know, Nadir
Sharif once proposed the same arrangement for English goods, if I would
trade with him personally through the port of Cambay. I ignored him. I
suspected he planned to find some way to confiscate the goods later on,
claiming nonpayment of duty."
"No, on that I think Nadir Sharif would have been very fair. He always
honors his agreements, with friend or foe." She looked ahead, her weary
eyes brightening as they approached the first jumble of tents and
roaming livestock that formed the edge of the camp. Servants in soiled
_dhotis _were leading camels bearing huge baskets of fodder along the
makeshift streets between the tents. "But their swindle will be
finished when Prince Jadar becomes Moghul. He despises the Portuguese
traders and their Christian priests."
The perimeter of the compound reserved for Jadar and his _zenana _was
clearly visible now, towering above the center of the camp. It was
bordered by a ten-foot-high wall of billowing red chintz, decorated
with a white hem at the top and held up with gilded poles spaced no
more than two feet apart. Spreading out around it were clusters of
smaller tents--red and white striped cloth for noblemen, and onesided
lean-to shelters ranging from brocade to ragged blankets for their
troops.
"The prince asked that we all ride directly to the _gulal bar_, his
personal compound," Vasant Rao shouted back over his shoulder at
Hawksworth. "I think he'll particularly want to see you, Captain."
Cheers erupted as they entered the camp. Tents emptied and infantrymen
lined the sides of the wide avenue leading to Jadar's compound, beating
their swords against their leather shields. As Hawksworth studied the
forest of flying standards spreading out on either side, he suddenly
realized that each _mansabdar _nobleman was flying his own insignia
above his cluster of tents.
Ahead, rising upward from the center of Jadar's compound, was a pole
some fifty feet high with a huge vessel of burning oil secured on its
tip. Hawksworth examined the flame with astonishment, then drew his
horse alongside Vasant Rao's.
"Why's there a light in the middle of the camp? It can be seen for
miles?"
"That's called the _akas-diya_, Captain, the Light of Heaven. It's the
Great Camp Light and it's used by everyone to keep their bearings at
night. How else could a man find his tent? There are probably fifty
thousand men here, with their women and servants. In the evenings,
after all the cow-dung fires are lighted for cooking, it's so smoky
here you can't see your own tent till you're practically in it."
"This camp's a town almost the size of London. How do the people live?"
"The camp bazaar travels with us, Captain. But you're right. It is a
city; merely one that moves." He gestured around them. "The prince of
course has his own personal supplies, but everyone else must shift for
himself. See those small tents on the street over there, between those
two high poles bearing standards. That's one of the bazaars for the
_banyas_, Hindu merchants who follow the army and sell grain, oil,
_ghee_, rice, _dal_, everything you'd find in any town. They feed the
men. The horses are fed by sending servants out to gather fodder. They
cut grass and bring it back on camels, or baggage ponies, or even on
their own head. On a long campaign many of the men bring their women,
to cook and carry water. The women have to bring water from any wells
or streams nearby." He laughed. "Incidentally, I should warn you the
prices these _banyas _ask are as inflated as the market will bear."
"For once I can't fault the merchants. They may well be out of buyers
soon."
Vasant Rao snorted and whipped his horse ahead. They were approaching
the entry to Jadar's compound, a wide silk awning with the prince's
banners flying from atop its posts. On either side stood rows of ornate
red tents with yellow fringe along the eaves. As Hawksworth rode by, he
noticed a high open tent on the left holding caged hunting leopards.
Next to it stood a massive canopy, surrounded by guards, sheltering
light artillery. He squinted against the sun to look inside and caught
a glimpse of several dozen small-bore cannon mounted on carriages. He
also noticed swivel guns fitted with a harness on their base, obviously
intended to be mounted atop elephants or camels. In the center were
several stacks of long-barreled Indian muskets wrapped in cloth. The
last tent on the left, adjacent to the gate, sheltered several gilded
palanquins and a row of immaculate bullock carts for Jadar's _zenana
_women.
On the opposite side of the avenue was a row of stables for elephants,
camels, and horses. Turbaned grooms were busy brushing the animals and
fitting harness. Next to the stables were quarters for the animals'
superintendents.
"Does all this belong to Jadar?"
"These are for the prince, his women, and guards. Each nobleman also
has his own stables and light artillery. The top command is split three
ways: with separate field commanders for the Rajputs, for the Muslims,
for the men of Moghul descent." Vasant Rao smiled reflectively. "It's
always wisest not to mix. For one thing, each needs its own bazaar; no
Rajput would eat food handled by an untouchable Muslim."
Their horses drew into the shade of the awning above the entrance to
the gulal bar. Vasant Rao and the other Rajputs reined in their mounts
and began to dismount.
"This is the _naqqara-khana_, Captain Hawksworth, the entry to His
Highness' private compound." Vasant Rao waved toward the red awning.
"Come. You'll be welcomed warmly by the prince, I promise you. I know
he'd hoped you'd join him."
Hawksworth swung down from his dark mare and stroked her one last time,
wiping away the lather around the saddle. Then he turned to help Shirin
alight. She leaned over and dropped into his arms, the sweat of
exhaustion mingled with her perfume.
Grooms from Jadar's stables were already waiting. As they took the
horses, the leader of the Rajput riders shouted staccato orders to them
in Urdu, the lingua franca of the camp, then turned and dismissed his
men, who immediately swaggered into the gathering crowd to embrace old
acquaintances.
"His Highness is expecting you." Vasant Rao smiled and bowed lightly to
the Rajput commander, who was tan and beardless save for a small
moustache, with a white skirt, a small turban of braided gold cloth,
and a velvet-sheathed katar in a red waist sash. The Rajput nodded,
then adjusted his turban and retrieved a tightly wrapped brocade bundle
from behind his saddle. As he led the way through the _naqqara-khana_,
Vasant Rao turned and motioned for Hawksworth and Shirin to follow.
Jadar's guards directed them along a pathway of carpets leading through
the outer barbican. Ahead was another gate, decorated with striped
chintz and sealed with a hanging tapestry. As they approached it, the
guards swept the tapestry aside and ushered them through.
The second compound was floored entirely with carpets and in its center
stood an open, satin canopy held aloft by four gilded poles. The canopy
shaded a rich Persian carpet and a throne fashioned from velvet
bolsters. Several men with shoulder-high kettledrums and long brass
trumpets were waiting nearby.
As Hawksworth watched, two eunuchs emerged through a curtain at the far
gate and lifted it high. While a fanfare of drums and trumpets filled
the air, Prince Jadar strolled jauntily through the entryway, alone.
He was dressed formally, with an elaborate silk cloak in pastel blue
and a jeweled turban that reminded Hawksworth of the one worn by the
Moghul himself. The brocade sash at his waist held a heavy katar with a
ruby on each side of the handle. His beard was close-trimmed, accenting
his dark eyes. Nothing about him suggested the appearance of a man
facing impending defeat.
"Nimaste, Mahdu, my old friend." Jadar walked directly to the Rajput
commander, grasped the man's turban and pressed it to his own breast.
"How long since we sat together and ate your Udaipur _lapsi _from the
same dish?"
"The New Year's festival of _diwali _two years past, Highness. In my
brother's palace. And I wore the gold cloak you gave me in honor of the
treaty between your armies and his, five years before."
"And tonight we will dine together again." He smiled. "If my cooks can
find enough cane-juice _gur _in all the bazaars to sweeten your
_lapsi_."
"Seeing you again, Highness, sweetens my tongue already." He bowed and
produced the brocade bundle. "My brother, the _maharana_, sends this
unworthy token, together with his prayers for your victory."
A eunuch stepped forward and brought it to Jadar. When the prince
opened the wrapping, a scabbard holding a jewel-handled sword glistened
in the mid morning light.
"He does me honor. A Rajput blade knows its friends and its foes."
Jadar smiled as he brushed the sword handle. Next he drew out the blade
and tested its edge with his finger. The Rajput watched as Jadar
sheathed the sword, then lifted the ruby-studded katar from his own
belt. "To honor him, I grant his brother my own katar. May its blade
soon be crimson with the blood of his foes."
The Rajput bowed as he received the knife. Jadar admired his new sword
a moment longer, then continued. "How many of our friends rode west
with you?"
"Half a thousand, Highness. More would have joined us now, but I
thought it unwise. Your Highness will understand why. But those who did
come I picked carefully. Twenty officers of superior class, and the
rest first and second class."
"The eunuchs watched your banners enter the camp. I've already heard
some of the names." The prince's voice rose. "I think you've gutted the
Rajput field command in the Imperial army."
"Not entirely, Highness."
"Ah, but I know you did." Jadar smiled and leaned forward, dropping his
voice again and switching from Turki to Rajasthani. "The tent poles
here can repeat my words." He drew himself erect again and signaled for
a tray of pan leaves from the eunuchs. "A tent has been prepared for
you. Tonight we will dine again from the same dish and you can tell me
how many white-necked cranes you bagged on Pichola Lake last winter."
The Rajput clasped his hands together and bowed lightly before taking a
pan leaf. "Tonight, Highness."
As Mahdu marched regally back through the entryway, Jadar turned and
studied Shirin thoughtfully for a moment. Then he motioned her forward
and smiled toward Vasant Rao. "And who else did you bring? Yet another
old friend?"
Shirin salaamed lightly. "I thank Your Highness for still remembering
me."
"I remember you very well. But the last I'd heard, Janahara had ordered
you imprisoned. I'm astonished to see you still alive."
"I was released by Arangbar, Highness, after Samad was executed." She
tried unsuccessfully to diguise the fatigue in her voice. "I still do
not know why."
"Perhaps it was his weakness for beauty." Jadar smiled. "But just now I
think you need rest. Mumtaz has asked me to invite you to stay with her
in the _zenana_."
"Shirin stays with me." Hawksworth heard his own voice, abruptly rising
above his exhaustion.
Jadar turned and studied him for a moment, then laughed out loud.
"Suddenly I understand many, many things. Mumtaz was right after all.
Why is it women always seem to see these things so clearly?" His gaze
swept Hawksworth's tattered jerkin. "Well? How are you, Captain
Hawksworth? Still alive, I see, just as I foretold. And still the
fashionable English ambassador."
"There is no other. Unfortunately, however, my mission was not a
complete success."
"First, India must have a just rule. Then trade can be conducted with
an even hand." Jadar leaned back on his bolster. "Tell me, Captain,
have you seen enough of Agra and court intrigue to rethink the matter
we once discussed?"
"I've probably seen all of Agra I'll ever see." Hawksworth fixed Jadar
squarely. "But then I'll have much company."
Jadar sobered and regarded Hawksworth a moment in silence.
"I see time still has not mellowed you. Or taught you very much. Do you
understand anything at all of land tactics, Sea Captain Hawksworth?"
"I've never claimed to. But I can count infantry."
Jadar laughed again. "You still amuse me, Captain. I'll never know why.
It saddens me there'll be so few occasions for us to pass the time
together during the next few days. But at least let me show you around
my compound. You'll see the next Moghul of India does not campaign
entirely like a destitute Arab."
"Why don't we start with your fortifications?"
Jadar roared as he lifted nimbly from his bolster throne and walked
into the sunshine. Then he paused and turned to Shirin. "Join us if you
wish. And by the way, where've you decided to stay?"
Shirin looked at Hawksworth for a moment, and their eyes locked. Then
he saw a smile flicker across her face. "I'll stay with the English
ambassador, Highness."
"As you wish." Jadar's tone was wistful. "I no longer try to reason
with the mind of a woman. But just let me caution you. If you stay
among the Muslims here, their women will spit on you unless you put on
a veil. They've never heard of Persia."
"Then we'll stay with the Rajputs." Shirin tossed her head and followed
along as Jadar led them through a side exit in the interior chintz wall
and into the outer perimeter of the compound. The kettledrums thundered
Jadar's exit.
"This side is for food, Captain." Jadar gestured toward a
row of ornate tents that lined the inside of the chintz walls. "The
first is for fruit and melons. No man can campaign without them,
particularly if he has a hungry _zenana_. The tent over there is for
making _sharbat_, and that one is for keeping betel leaves to make
_pan_." Jadar smiled. "Try denying a woman her betel and you'll have
nothing but squabbles." He led them on, pointing, as he walked. "The
large tent there is the kitchen, the one beyond it the bakery, and the
one past that for grinding spices."
Hawksworth found himself astonished. Who could lead an army amid such
extravagance? The tents were all red satin, with gilded poles around
the outside, giving them the appearance of luxurious pavilions. Some,
like the one for fruits and melons, were raised on a platform above the
ground, while others were two-story, with an interior stair. As he
watched the servants scurry from tent to tent bearing silver trays, he
found it difficult to remember a war was looming.
"You'll soon discover traveling with women is always burdensome,
Captain. For example, on the other side of the _gulal bar _I've had to
erect a special tent just for their perfumes, another for their
tailors, another to hold their wardrobes. Then there's a tent for
mattresses, one for basins, and one for lamps and oil. These women rule
my life. The things I really need--workshops, guardhouses, my arsenal--
I've had to situate back behind the _zenana_, near where the
servingwomen stay." Jadar paused, his eyes gleaming mischievously.
"Well, what do you think?"
"I think an army camp should have fewer women and more men."
Jadar laughed and looked pointedly at Shirin. "But what is life without
women, Captain?"
"Wives don't travel with an army in Europe."
"Then Europe could learn something from India."
"About fighting or about women?"
"Before you're through you may learn a few thing about both." Jadar
turned and started back down the row of tents. "War here is very
different from wars on the seas, Captain. You should see my men fight
before you judge them. But my question now is whether you know how to
fight well enough to be of any help. Tell me, can you handle a bow?"
"Armies don't use bows in England any more. I've certainly never used
one. I think the last time bows were issued for battle was back around
the time of the Spanish Armada, about thirty years ago. Some of the
local forces in Devonshire equipped eight hundred men with longbows."
Jadar paused uncertainly. "What do you mean by 'longbow'?"
"It's a bow about five feet in length. The best ones are made of yew,
but they're also made from ash and elm."
"You mean your bows are made entirely from wood?" Jadar's voice
betrayed his skepticism. "What weight did they pull?"
"I don't know exactly, but they were powerful enough. You can draw a
longbow all the way back to your ear. During the time of King Harry it
was forbidden to practice with a longbow using a range less than a full
furlong. The English longbow drove the crossbow right out of Europe.
I've heard it said a longbow can pierce a four-inch-thick oak door."
"But you don't use them now?"
"We prefer muskets."
He seemed to ponder the answer as he led them back into his carpeted
reception area. He took his place beneath the canopy, then turned to
Hawksworth.
"We use muskets too. But frankly they're often more trouble than
they're worth. They're cumbersome and inaccurate, and while you're
reloading and priming your matchlock a Rajput archer will put half a
dozen arrows through you. Infantry here normally is one-third matchlock
men and two-thirds archers. If you're going to be any help to us,
Captain, you'll need to learn to use a bow."
Jadar stopped and turned to look at Shirin. Her eyes were fluttering
with fatigue. "But I forget my manners. You must have some rest while
we teach the _feringhi _how to fight. Perhaps the best thing would be
to clear a tent for you at the rear of the _gulal bar_, near the
workshops. And the English captain can stay there too," Jadar laughed.
"So I can watch him practice his bow." He glanced back at Hawksworth
and his eyes froze on the pearl earring. "I see you're a _khan_ now, as
well as an ambassador. Congratulations. If Arangbar can make you a
_khan_, I can surely make you an archer."
Jadar motioned to the eunuchs, who came forward and escorted Shirin
through the rear doorway of the compound. Hawksworth was watching her
leave, praying for sleep himself, when Jadar's voice brought him back.
"Let me begin by explaining our Indian bow to you, Captain. I think
it's probably quite different from the English bow you described."
Jadar turned to Vasant Rao and motioned toward his quiver, a flat
leather case hanging from a strap over one shoulder. It was covered
with gold embossing and held both his bow and his arrows. "You know we
have a proverb: the sword is better than the katar, the spear is better
than the sword; the arrow better than the spear. I've heard Muslims
claim the bow and arrow were first given to Adam by the archangel
Gabriel." Jadar paused while Vasant Rao took out his bow and passed it
over. "Now, the first thing you need to learn is how to string this.
It's more difficult than you might suppose, since a bow is reflexed,
curved back around the opposite way when unstrung. It's stressed
against the strung position to give it more weight on the pull." Jadar
examined the bow for a moment. "In fact, you can tell how much use a
bow has had by the way it's bent when unstrung. The original curve in
this bow is almost gone, which means it's had a lot of use. Here hold
it for a moment."
Hawksworth grasped the bow in his hand. It was some four feet long,
shaped in a wide curve with the ends bent back. The grip was velvet,
with a gold-embossed design on the inner side.
"You say your English bows are made of wood, but I find that difficult
to believe. This one is a composite, a mango-wood core with strips of
buffalo horn glued over the outside. And the outer curve is lined with
catgut to give it even more force. That's why this bow had to be sealed
on the outside with leather. We use leather or lacquer to protect the
glue from the dampness of the monsoon. The string, by the way, is a
silk skein with a crisscross binding at the center."
"How do you string it?"
Jadar grinned as he took back the bow. "It's not easy. If you have to
string a bow while riding, you hook one end between the stirrup and the
instep of your foot and brace it backward against your knee. But
usually we bend it over our back." He took the string in his hand and
slipped the bow around his waist. Then he flipped it against his back
and pulled its free end over his left shoulder, inverting the curve and
hooking the string in a single motion. It was done in an instant.
"There. But I've made it look easier than it is. You should practice.
And it would also be well if you could learn to string a bow and shoot
from horseback."
"Horseback!"
"All horsemen use a bow."
"How can you possibly hit anything from horseback?"
"Practice. A good Rajput archer can shoot as well from horseback as
standing. The Uzbeks shoot better." As Jadar spoke he was extracting a
heavy ring from inside his cloak. One side of the ring was a green
emerald, flat and square and half an inch wide.
"This is a _zihgir_, a bow ring, to protect your thumb when you draw.
It also increases your range."
He pushed the emerald ring over his thumb, notched an arrow into the
string, and drew it back effortlessly, holding the thin bamboo arrow in
position with a touch of his forefinger. The whole sequence had taken
less than a second. Hawksworth found himself staring in admiration.
"By the way," Jadar turned to Vasant Rao, "show him how you shoot under
a shield."
The Rajput turned to one of Jadar's guards, whose shield was hanging
loosely from a shoulder strap. He took the shield and slipped it onto
his wrist. It was circular, a quarter inch thick and about two feet in
diameter, and curved like a wide bowl. The front was figured with a
silver ensign and in the center were four steel nailheads, which
secured the handgrips on the back.
"That shield's one of the best. It's made with cured rhino
hide and toughened with lacquer. You hold it by those two straps
attached inside, there in the center." Jadar pointed as Vasant Rao held
out the back of the shield. "Notice the straps are large and loose. So
when you want to shoot, you can slip your hand through and slide the
shield up your wrist, like he's doing now. Then your hand extends out
beyond the rim and you can hold the grip of the bow. But remember
you'll have no protection when shooting, so you'll learn to shoot fast
or you won't live long in a battle. Here, try the shield."
Hawksworth took the shield and gripped the leather thongs on the back.
"It's light. How much protection does it give?"
"A buffalo-hide shield is really only effective against arrows, but a
rhino-hide shield like this one will usually deflect musket fire. We'll
find a rhino shield for you somewhere." Jadar rose to leave.
"Incidentally, after seeing how you handle that bow, I think I'd better
assign you to the guards stationed back with the _zenana_. That should
keep you well out of the battle. I don't want my first English
ambassador dead just yet." He fingered his long pearl necklace and
studied Hawksworth. "You may be interested to know my reports say the
Imperial army will reach us in two days. Tomorrow I plan to poison all
the tanks and water wells within twenty _kos _east of here, forcing
them to attack immediately. I hope you'll be ready."
He turned and was gone.
Hawksworth awoke at noon the following day to discover work had begun
on fortification of the camp. He left Shirin sleeping and walked to the
eastern perimeter, where the heavy cannon were being drawn into
position. As he paused to study one of the cannon, he found himself
comparing it with the European design. It looked to be a six-inch bore,
with a molded iron barrel strengthened by brass hoops shrunk around the
outside. It was bolted onto its own carriage, a flat base supported by
four solid wooden wheels, and pulled by a team of ten white bullocks
yoked in pairs. Cotton ropes almost two inches in diameter were tied
around the breech, looped beneath the axles and then through a heavy
iron ring on the front of the mount, extending forward to hooks on the
yokes of the bullocks.
While their drivers whipped the animals forward, a crowd of
moustachioed infantry in red and green tunics clustered around the gun
carriages pushing. A drummer in an orange cloak sat astraddle the
breech of the cannon beating cadence for the other men on two large
drums strapped along each side of the barrel. A large bull elephant
trailed behind, heavy padding on his forehead, and whenever the gun
carriage bogged, the elephant would be moved forward to shove the
breech with his head.
As the cannon were rolled into position, some fifteen feet apart, they
were being linked to each other with heavy ropes of twisted bull hide
the size and strength of metal chain, to prevent cavalry from riding
through and cutting down the gunners. After the hide ropes were
camouflaged with brush, a leather screen was placed behind the breech
of each gun to protect the gunners when it fired.
Hawksworth counted approximately three hundred cannon along the camp
perimeter. Firepots were being stationed behind each gun, together with
linstocks and leather barrels of powder. A few bags of dirt had been
piled between some of the cannon to provide protection for matchlock
men. Around the cannon, men were assembling piles of four-sided iron
claws, and beyond, diggers with picks and wicker baskets had begun a
halfhearted effort to start construction of a trench. He studied the
preparations uneasily for a moment, sensing something was wrong, and
then he froze.
There was no shot. Only stacks of iron claws.
He whirled and made his way back to the munitions depot, rows of
yellow-fringed tents. The shot was there waiting, in gauge ranging from
two inch to ten inch, but none had been moved.
He moved on to other tents and discovered several hundred more cannon.
Some were the same gauge as those being deployed, others much larger.
All had been fitted with harness, ready to be moved, but now they stood
in long rows, waiting. As he moved onto another row of tents, pushing
through the swarm of men and bullocks, he discovered a vast cache of
smaller cannon, thousands, also mounted on wooden carriages but small
enough to be moved by a bullock, or even two men. These too were
harnessed and sat untouched.
Beyond there were other rows of tents, where seven-foot- long muskets--
together with powder, bags of shot, and a wooden prong to rest the
barrel on when firing--were now being broken out and distributed to the
infantry. The men were being armed, but the camp itself was practically
without fortification.
Hawksworth stood brooding about the preparations, about the Rajput horn
bow he had only barely learned to use--he was finally able to hit the
_todah_, practice target, a mound of earth piled near Jadar's officers'
tent, but shooting under a shield seemed impossible--and the situation
began to overwhelm him. Jadar's position was becoming more hopeless by
the minute.
He stared around the open camp and decided he would try to requisition
as many matchlocks as possible, and perhaps also try to teach Shirin to
shoot in the time remaining. If they had muskets, he told himself,
perhaps they could somehow defend themselves when the Imperial army
swept through the camp.
He turned and pushed his way back toward where muskets were being
issued. Men were walking past him carrying heavy matchlocks, five feet
in length with a barrel of rolled steel welded together end to end. The
barrel was attached to the stock by a broad steel band, and both were
profusely ornamented with embossing and colored enamel. Some of the
muskets had wooden tripods attached to the end of the barrel.
As he approached the munitions tent, he saw Vasant Rao standing in its
center, issuing orders with an easy smile, his moustache and turban as
prim as though he were on muster. Behind him was a head-high pile of
muskets, each wrapped in a roll of green broadcloth. Hawksworth stared
at him for a moment, then pushed forward. Through the shouting mob he
finally managed to catch the Rajput's arm and pull him toward the rear
of the open tent.
"Why aren't the cannon being deployed?"
"But they are, Captain." Vasant Rao stroked his moustache and looked
past Hawksworth's shoulder toward the next stack of matchlocks.
"But only the medium-bore guns, and even those have no shot. Nothing
else has been moved."
"By medium bore I assume you mean the _gau-kash_, the ox-drawn cannon.
That's true. But these things all take time."
"You're spending what little time you have left deploying medium-bore
cannon, and those with no shot! Who the hell is in charge?"
"Prince Jadar, of course. The _gau-kash _cannon are the key to his
strategy." Vasant Rao moved past Hawksworth and barked orders for the
next stack of muskets to be unstrapped. Waiting infantrymen in ragged
cloaks pushed forward. "Take a musket, Captain, if you want one.
They're probably of some small use. When I'm finished here, I have to
check all the harness on the _fil-kash _cannon, the large guns that
will be drawn into position by elephants. Then I still have to issue
the _mardum-kash _guns, the small cannon that are assigned to two-man
teams."
"Where will this other artillery be deployed?" Hawksworth shouted
toward Vasant Rao's back.
The Rajput seemed not to hear, as he paused to speak to one of the men
assisting him. Then he turned and unwrapped a musket, selected a
tripod, and passed both to Hawksworth. The other man was bringing a
wide velvet belt from the back of the tent, and he handed it to
Hawksworth. Hanging from it were a powder flask, bullet pouch, priming
horn, match cord, and flint and steel. "The prince will issue orders
for deployment of the _fil-kash _and _mardum-kash _guns after they've
all been harnessed."
"He'd better issue them soon. It'll start growing dark in a couple of
hours, three at most."
"I'm sure he's aware of the time, Captain." Vasant Rao turned and
disappeared into a circle of bearded Rajputs, barking orders.
Hawksworth watched him disappear, then turned and grabbed two more
muskets. Holding them ahead of him like a prow he pushed his way back
into the milling street. The air was rank with sweat and the crowds
seemed more disorganized than ever. Women jostled in the streets,
haggling with the merchants for clay jars of oil, while grooms moved
among them leading prancing horses, each wearing a gold-fringed saddle
blanket that glowed like ancient coin in the waning sun.
Hawksworth studied the crowd, searching vainly for some sense of
organization, then turned to begin working his way back toward Jadar's
compound and his own tent.
Shirin was still there, asleep. He stood admiring her again, her soft
mouth, the olive skin of her high cheeks, her shining dark hair, and
realized he loved her more than ever.
Dear God, we've only just begun to live. Jadar is a madman.
Almost without knowing why, he began to rummage through the remains of
his clothing, still rolled in the carpet and lying where he had thrown
it. His pulse suddenly quickened when his fingers closed around a hard
round object. It was his very last bottle of brandy, miraculously
entangled in the remains of his formal doublet.
If there was ever a time . . .
He ripped away the rotting cork with his teeth and pulled deeply on the
brandy, twice. As always, it seemed to work at the knot in his gut. He
took one more swallow, then shook Shirin.
She startled awake and stared at him wildly for a second. Then she
broke into a smile . . . until she saw the brandy.
"Do you really need that now?"
"I need this and a lot more. How can you sleep? This whole God-cursed
camp is going to be leveled by the Imperial army in a few hours." He
stopped and stared at her. "Are you listening? Only a fraction of
Jadar's cannon are deployed. Most are still waiting to be pulled into
position. It's unbelievable."
Shirin pulled herself up and leaned against a bolster, examining him
with weary eyes. "Then why are you here? I
thought you'd decided to help Prince Jadar."
"How can anyone help him when he won't help himself?" Hawksworth took
another burning mouthful of brandy and stared at his bow quiver lying
on the carpet. In a fit of disgust he kicked it toward the center of
the tent.
Shirin watched the bow fall and laughed.
"Have you mastered your Rajput bow yet?"
"No, and what does it matter? You know Jadar is outnumbered three to
one." Hawksworth pointed toward the muskets he had leaned against a
coil of rope by the tent pole. "I've got three weapons for us. Do you
think you can shoot a matchlock?"
"I can shoot a bow." She dismissed the muskets with a glance. "I
sincerely hope you've learned enough to shoot one too."
A trumpet sounded from the center of the compound. Immediately it was
answered by others the length of the camp.
Shirin snapped alert and rose off the bolster, pulling her gauze cloak
around her waist.
"That's the signal to begin preparing the firewood. Come. At least you
can help with that."
Hawksworth examined her aghast.
"Firewood! What in God's name are you talking about? Is Jadar planning
to light fires? Is he worried the Imperial army won't find our camp?"
He turned and walked to the doorway, rubbing his brow in disbelief. "I
think there's damned small risk of that. The red tents of his _zenana
_can be seen for miles."
Shirin laughed and pushed her way ahead of him, past the portiere of
the tent. Servants had already begun assembling piles of logs along the
center of the walkway that ran the length of the compound. Hawksworth
stood at the doorway and stared in astonishment as clay jars of oil
were carried from the kitchen tent and stationed near the logs. As he
watched, he noticed the long shadows of dusk beginning to play across
the walls of nearby tents.
He turned to retrieve the brandy, and when he emerged again from the
tent, Shirin was lost among the crowd of servants bringing wood. He
slipped the bottle into his jerkin and started working his way down the
side of the compound, back toward the munitions tent.
Pairs of elephants had been harnessed to the larger cannon, and now
they were being led out of the camp, into the dusk. Following these
were camels with two-pound swivel guns mounted on their backs, together
with infantry pulling the smaller guns after them on two-wheeled
carriages. Bullock carts heaving with powder and shot came after.
Pyramids of firewood were scattered among the tents, and already many
of the Rajputs had assembled by the unlit piles, talking and embracing.
Some had seated themselves and removed their turbans, chanting verses
from the Bhagavad-Gita as they began to oil and comb their long black
hair. Hawksworth watched silently as they started passing around inlaid
teakwood boxes, taking and eating handfuls of small brown balls.
As he stood puzzling, he recognized Vasant Rao standing among the men.
The Rajput was somber now, clasping each of the men in what seemed a
farewell gesture. He looked up and saw Hawksworth and smiled.
"Captain Hawksworth, I'm glad you're here. You're almost a Rajput
yourself by now. Do you want to comb your hair? It's how we prepare for
what may happen. Who knows which of us will see the morrow?"
"I can die just as well with my hair the way it is."
"Then you're not entirely a Rajput after all. But you're still welcome
to join us." He held out one of the boxes.
Hawksworth opened the box and gingerly took out one of the balls. As he
rolled it under his nose, it triggered a distant memory of his first
night in Surat and Mukarrab Khan's dinner party. Suddenly he stopped
dead still.
It was opium.
"Jesus Christ! Have you all gone mad?" He flung the ball to the ground
and whirled on Vasant Rao. "That's the last thing you need if you hope
to fight at all. It's like eating death."
"Affion prepares a Rajput for battle, Captain. The more we eat, the
stronger we become. It gives us the strength of lions."
"Good Jesus help us all."
Hawksworth pushed his way incredulously back through the milling crowd
of infantry and mounted cavalry, feeling as though the world had
collapsed. All around him Rajputs were eating handfuls of opium,
combing their hair, embracing in farewell. Many had already put on
their _khaftan_, the quilted vest they wore under their armor. He
wondered how long it would be before they became drunk with opium and
began killing each other.
God, we're all going to die. Can't Jadar stop it? Can't he at least
stop them from eating opium before we're attacked? And where are they
moving the cannon? Out of the camp? What the hell is happening?
He wheeled and headed for the _naqqara-khana_, the entry to Jadar's
compound. When he reached it, he realized the guards were gone. Amazed,
he walked through the entry and discovered all the interior partitions
of the gulal bar were also gone. The satin tents that had held the
melons, the pan leaves, the kitchen--all were deserted, empty.
He made his way on through the deserted gulal bar, feeling like a man
lost. In the dark there were no guards, no troops, nothing. Ahead he
heard the sound of elephants trumpeting and he felt his way forward
through the semi-darkness, the ground a mosaic of flickering shadows
from the still-burning camp light. His despair absolute, he reached
into the pocket of his jerkin for the bottle.
A katar was at his throat.
"It's forbidden by death to draw a weapon in the _gulal bar_, Captain."
"I was only . . ."
There was an explosion of laughter and he turned to see the shadowed
face of Jadar.
"What . . . what are you doing here?"
"Thinking, Captain Hawksworth. Do you never think before a battle at
sea? Surely you must."
"I think. And I also keep my gunners sober." Hawksworth
felt vaguely foolish as he finished extracting the brandy bottle. "Do
you know half your men are eating handfuls of opium?"
"I'm glad to hear it. It means my Rajputs will be invincible tomorrow."
Jadar flipped the katar in his hand and dropped it into is leather
sheath. "By the way, I understand you failed to master the bow. But
let's talk about something more important. Perhaps you can be of help
after all. I'm sure you realize. Captain, that a commander must always
understand two things. He must know his own strengths, and he must know
the strengths of those who oppose him. But he can really only know one
of these for sure. He can never know exactly what he will meet." Jadar
paused. "Tell me, if you were Inayat Latif, how would you deploy the
Imperial army tomorrow?"
"What do you mean?"
"How would you choose to attack? The position of infantry, cavalry,
elephants is never exactly the same in any battle. For example, often
the front line is held by rows of infantry. The first row will be men
wearing plate armor-- which is much heavier than the usual steel
netting--forming a protective wall with special broad shields. They are
always excellent archers. Behind these will be another row, wearing
only helmets and breastplates, and armed with swords and pikes. The
third row is infantry with swords, bows, and axes. The fourth carries
lances and swords. The rows are segmented, so those behind can see
ahead, and cavalry can get through."
"That deployment would mean a slow-moving attack, and a very bloody
fight."
"Precisely. That's why many commanders prefer to use their cavalry as
the vanguard. Horsemen can move faster, and they can more easily avoid
defense barricades."
Hawksworth looked at Jadar, wishing he could see his eyes. "But cavalry
can be cut to ribbons with small artillery. Is it wise to charge with
your cavalry if your enemy has heavy gun emplacements?"
He heard Jadar laugh. "You may make a commander yet. You see, Inayat
Latif will naturally assume our camp is
heavily defended. Now although it's considered questionable manners to
attack a camp at night, your manners become excusable if you attack at
early dawn, even though it's still dark. I've known of attacks
occurring almost half a _pahar _before dawn. What's that in European
measure? An hour, an hour and a half?"
"But if it's still dark, how can you see the enemy's lines?"
"You can see them if your enemy's camp has been negligent enough to
leave a few fires burning." Jadar smiled as he paused to let the words
sink. "But now let's examine the third possibility. Leading the attack
with your elephants. Elephant armor is steel plate and it can withstand
everything except heavy cannon. If you can entice your foe into firing
his biggest artillery before you charge, then you can send a wave of
war elephants and devastate his gunners before their cannon cool enough
to reload. Since it can take at least half a _pahar _for a large cannon
to cool, large guns are rarely fired more than once in a battle. And
never after your cavalry has moved out. Leading the vanguard with war
elephants always entails danger, since if they panic, they can turn
around and trample your own infantry, but in this case it's probably
worth the risk."
"And you think that's what Inayat Latif will try to do?" Hawksworth
absently twirled the brandy bottle in his hand.
"I'm asking you."
"It sounds the most plausible. He'll position his biggest cannon to
fire into the camp, and after he's drawn your fire in return, he'll
stampede about a thousand war elephants right through here, crushing
everything in their path. Including your opium-sotted Rajputs and their
invincible bows."
"You're doing remarkably well so far, Captain." Jadar took Hawksworth's
arm and guided him toward the back of the compound. "And then what
would you do?"
"I'd send an infantry wave right after the war elephants, with lines so
thick it would be a wall of death. And behind them I'd have cavalry,
with muskets, to contain the camp and meet your own cavalry when it
broke through--as it probably would eventually."
"Cavalrymen wouldn't bother with muskets, just bows, but you're still
thinking very clearly. Now tell me, from what direction would you
attack this particular camp?"
They were approaching the tents, where servants were beginning to soak
the wood piles with oil. Hawksworth found himself astonished that Jadar
would listen calmly to the strategy spelling his own destruction.
"From the east, the way we came in."
"And why that particular direction?"
"Several reasons." Hawksworth tried to remember the terrain as they
came into the camp. "First, if I'd marched from the east, I'd already
have my army deployed there. Second, and probably more important, it's
the only direction that's really accessible. The other sides are too
forested. But from the east there's a wide clearing that funnels down
right into the perimeter of the camp."
"With a very clear demarcation of forest on each side, which helps keep
your army grouped."
"Correct. And, also, the sun would not be in my men's eyes if I hit you
from the east."
Jadar stopped and looked at him. "So that is precisely what you would
do? Attack at dawn on the eastern perimeter. And lead with a front line
of war elephants?"
"With the biggest and best I had."
Jadar sighed. "You know, it troubles me that a _feringhi _would
conclude the same thing I have. But I think it's a classic problem. And
that will dictate a classic solution in the mind of Inayat Latif, whose
alleged brilliance does not include a flair for originality. He'll have
to mount a conventional attack. What's more, because of the restricted
terrain, he'll have no room to split his army into a right wing and a
left wing. They'll have to be a single phalanx. That's dangerous if you
ever need to retreat, but he'll not even consider that possibility. And
you say you also believe he'll hold his cavalry for the third wave."
Jadar paused. "That's more important here than you probably realize.
Everything else depends on it. The cavalry must attack last."
"It seems best. And his cavalry is mainly Rajput. He'll not risk
cutting up his finest troops by sending them in the first attack wave,
when your artillery is still in place." Hawksworth hesitated, then
continued bitterly. "Or should be."
Jadar laughed and looked at Hawksworth, then at his bottle.
"What's that in your hand. Captain?"
"A bottle of brandy. Spanish, I'm ashamed to admit, but it's still the
best."
"May I try it?"
Jadar took the bottle and gingerly swallowed a swig. He stood
motionless for a moment and then coughed violently.
"Merciful Allah! Now I understand why the Prophet forbade its use." He
shoved back the bottle. "But I wanted to drink once with you, Captain.
I'm told it's a European custom. You've eased my mind."
"Eased your mind! I just told you how your camp will be devastated at
sunrise."
"Absolutely. I will regret losing these tents." Jadar's tone grew
pensive. "You know, some of them have been with me since my first
campaign in the Deccan, years ago."
"How about your Rajputs? And your women? Will you regret losing them as
much as your tents?"
"I don't expect to lose them." Jadar took Hawksworth's arm and led him
around the last tent. In the firelight baggage elephants were being
loaded with women from the _zenana_. The elephants were covered with
_pakhar _armor, steel plates around the sides of their bodies and a
special steel casement for their head and trunk. The women were being
helped up tall ladders and into their elephants' _howdah_, an octagonal
box of heavy boards strengthened with iron plate.
"Why are you loading the women now?"
"But we're leaving, Captain."
Hawksworth stared at him speechlessly for a moment, then noticed Shirin
walking toward them, carrying a bow and two quivers of arrows.
"You're leaving?"
"You just predicted this camp would be devastated. I agree with you
entirely. In fact I planned it that way. So why should anyone be here
when it happens? The camp will be empty by dawn, Captain. Naturally we
had to wait until dark to move out. And continue work on the trenches
until the very end. Inayat Latif undoubtedly has scouts all around. But
by dawn there'll only be smoldering fires here. And the troops needed
to man our decoy cannon across the eastern perimeter. I've loaded half
the cannon with elephant barbs made in my workshops. The other half
with nothing. Why waste shot? We'll fire the blank cannon to induce
them to charge, and after the elephants have come inside cannon range,
we'll shoot the barbs in among them. A barb in the foot of an elephant
can immobilize it completely. Inayat Latif will never expect barbs.
They haven't been used in India for fifty years. His war elephants
should be contained right out there, unable to advance or retreat."
"But where will your army be?"
"Captain. Just when I thought you were beginning to understand tactics.
My army will be waiting along both sides of the open plain on the east,
behind a foliage camouflage we've been erecting over the past two
weeks. After the attack force of Imperial war elephants has been
funneled into the empty camp, we will open fire against them with our
biggest cannon. From both sides. The medium-range cannon will fire into
the infantry, as will the small artillery. All the guns should be in
place just before dawn if I've timed it right."
Hawksworth turned to see keepers leading an armored elephant forward
for him and Shirin. Only its ears could be seen behind the steel plate.
Then he looked again at Jadar.
"But you're still outnumbered in infantry three to one."
"All things in time, Captain." He turned and embraced Shirin lightly.
"This was my best _swanih-nigar_. Guard her well."
Shirin examined Hawksworth's brandy bottle with her dark eyes and
laughed skeptically. "I've brought my own bow."
Hawksworth cleared his throat as he slipped the bottle back into his
jerkin. "I've requisitioned a brace of muskets. It's still the weapon I
prefer."
"Congratulations, Captain." Jadar's laugh was cynical. "I admire your
_feringhi_ initiative. But I don't want to see you harmed. Like I told
you, I'm sending you with the _zenana_. They'll be moved to that
hilltop there west of the camp. So at least you'll be able to watch the
battle." He turned to leave. "Farewell until tomorrow, Captain. May
Allah ride with you."
"And I wish you Godspeed. You're a ten times better strategist then I
realized, for whatever it may be worth."
Jadar laughed. "Just save some of your foul-tasting _feringhi _brandy
for our victory celebration. And perhaps I'll drink with you one more
time." His eyes darkened. "If not, then tomorrow we'll be eating lamb
side by side in Paradise."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A drum roll lifted across the dark plain, swelling in intensity
like angry, caged thunder. It rose to fill the valley with a foreboding
voice of death, then faded slowly to silence, gorged on its own
immensity.
"That's the Imperial army's call to arms. Prince Jadar was right.
Inayat Latif is attacking now, before dawn." Shirin was seated next to
Hawksworth in the dark _howdah_. She rose to peer over the three-foot-
high steel rim, out into the blackness. Around them were the shapes of
the _zenana _guard elephants, silently swinging their trunks beneath
their armor. The _zenana _waited farther back on female baggage
elephants, surrounded by hundreds of bullock carts piled with clothing
and utensils. "Merciful Allah, he must have a thousand war drums."
"You saw the size of the Imperial army mustering at Fatehpur."
Hawksworth rose to stand beside her, grasping the side of the rocking
_howdah _and inhaling the cold morning air. "The queen had begun
recalling _mansabdars _and their troops from every province."
Suddenly a chorus of battle horns cut through the dark, followed by the
drums again, now a steady pulse that resounded off the wooded hills,
swelling in power.
"That's the signal for the men and cavalry to deploy themselves in
battle array." Shirin pointed toward the sound. "The Imperial forces
are almost ready."
Below them fires smoldered in Jadar's abandoned camp, a thousand specks
of winking light. Although the east was beginning to hint the first
tinges of light, the valley where the Imperial army had massed was
still shrouded in black.
The drums suddenly ceased, mantling the valley in eerie, portentous
quiet. Hawksworth felt for Shirin's hand and noticed it perspiring,
even in the cold dawn air.
From the eastern edge of Jadar's abandoned camp points of cannon fire
erupted, tongues of light that divulged the length and location of the
camp's defenses. A few moments later--less time than Hawksworth would
have wished--the sound reached them, dull pops, impotent and hollow. The
firing lapsed increasingly sporadic, until the camp's weak perimeter
defense seemed to exhaust itself like the last melancholy thrusts of a
spent lover.
The defense perimeter of the camp had betrayed itself, and in the tense
silence that ensued Hawksworth knew the Imperial guns were being set.
Suddenly a wall of flame illuminated the center of the plain below,
sending rockets of fire plunging toward the empty camp.
"Jesus, they're launching fireworks with cannon. What are they?"
"I don't know. I've heard that cannon in India were once called
naphtha-throwers."
A second volley followed hard after the first. Although this time no
fireworks were hurtled, the impact was even more deadly. Forty-pound
Imperial shot ripped wide trenches through the flaming tents of the
prince's camp. In moments the _gulal bar_, where they had been standing
only hours before, was devastated, an inferno of shredded cloth and
billowing flame.
A harsh chant began to drift upward from the valley, swelling as voices
joined in unison.
"Allah-o-Akbar! Allah-o-Akbar!" God is Great. It was the battle cry of
Inayat Latifs Muslim infantry.
The plain below had grown tinged with light now, as dawn approached and
the fires from Jadar's camp spread. As Hawksworth watched, nervously
gripping the handle of his sword, a force of steel-armored war
elephants advanced on the eastern perimeter of the camp, their polished
armor plate glowing red in the firelight. Those in the vanguard bore
steel-shrouded _howdahs_, through which a single heavy cannon protruded
. . . probably a ten-pounder, Hawksworth told himself. The steel
_howdahs_ on the next rows of elephants were almost three feet high and
perforated to allow their archers to shoot without rising above the
open top. Sporadic cannon and matchlock fire from the few hundred men
left in the camp pelted the elephants but did nothing to impede their
advance. Directly behind them the Imperial infantry swept in dense,
martialed ranks.
Jadar knew exactly what he was doing when he picked this terrain for
the camp, Hawksworth told himself. He used it to set the terms for the
battle. There's no room to maneuver. When they discover the camp is
abandoned, the elephants can't retreat and regroup without crushing
their own infantry.
He slipped his arm around Shirin's waist and held her next to him. They
watched as the Imperial war elephants crashed through the camp's outer
edge, scarcely slowing at the ditch. When the elephants were at point-
blank range, the specially loaded cannon along the perimeter opened
fire, spraying a rain of steel barbs among them. Even from the hilltop
he could hear the clang of steel as the barbs ricocheted off their
armor.
"We'll soon know if Jadar's plan has a chance. Can he contain the
elephants there, or will they obliterate the camp, then regroup, and .
. ."
The first row of elephants suddenly reared chaotically, lashing out
with their armored trunks and dismounting some of the gunners. As barbs
caught in their feet, they trumpeted in pain and started to mill
randomly in angry confusion, crushing several of the men they had
thrown.
Just as Jadar predicted, the deadly carpet of barbs had temporarily
disrupted their advance. Their ranks were broken and their guns in
disarray. Behind the elephants the infantry still marched unaware,
until the confusion in the elephant ranks began to disrupt their front
lines. Gradually the order in the infantry ranks completely
disintegrated, as the men stopped to eye the milling war elephants
ahead of them in growing fear and confusion. By a single cannon salvo
Jadar's men had robbed the attack of its momentum.
"Now's Jadar's moment." Hawksworth watched in growing admiration. "Will
he use it?"
As though in answer, a blare of trumpets from the hills on both sides
of the plain suddenly electrified the morning air. As they died away,
the woods opened wide with a single chorus, deep and throaty and
unforgiving.
RAM RAM. RAM RAM. RAM RAM.
It was the ancient Rajput war cry.
A blaze of fire from Jadar's camouflaged cannon shredded away the leafy
blinds erected along the foot of the hills, sending a rain of forty-
pound lead shot into the Imperial war elephants. Their disordered ranks
erupted in tangled steel and blood. Seconds later, a volley by Jadar's
small artillery ripped into the unsuspecting infantry massed behind the
elephants, hurtling fragmented bodies and orphaned weapons spinning
through the ranks. Finally came the fiery streaks of rockets, thin
foot-long iron tubes filled with gunpowder and set with a lighted fuse,
many with a sword blade attached to the end, which cut in a deadly wave
through the Imperial troops, slashing and exploding as they flew.
A dense roll of Jadar's war drums sounded from both hillsides, and the
first wave of Rajput cavalry, still bellowing their war cry, charged
down on the disrupted Imperial forces, discharging volleys of arrows
with mechanical precision. They wore steel-net cloaks and helmet
guards, and their horses were armored with woven steel netting encased
in heavy quilting--with a wide frontlet over the chest, a neck-length
collar secured to the top of the bridle, and a body shroud over their
sides and hindquarters emblazoned with each man's family crest. The
startled infantry turned to meet them, and in moments the air darkened
with opposing arrows. From the hill above came the din of supporting
matchlock fire from Jadar's own infantry.
The Rajput cavalry plowed into the first rows of Imperial infantry with
their long _nezah _lances held at arm's length high above their heads,
thrusting downward as they rode. Veins fueled with opium, the Rajputs
had forgotten all fear. They brushed aside Imperial spears and swords
and slaughtered with undisguised pleasure, as though each death endowed
more honor to their _dharma_. Hawksworth's stomach knotted as he
watched a thousand men fall in less than a minute.
While the Rajputs attacked, the prince's division of armored war
elephants had emerged from their camouflage and begun advancing across
the western edge of the plain, isolating the ragged remainder of the
Imperial elephants from the battlefield. Although Jadar had far fewer
war elephants, they now were easily able to contain the shattered
Imperial forces.
Hawksworth turned to watch as yet another wave of Jadar's cavalry bore
down on the plain. These rode through the tangle of Imperial infantry
wielding long curved swords, killing any the first wave had missed.
"I'm not sure I believe what I'm seeing." Hawksworth peered through the
dust and smoke boiling across the plain below. "Jadar has already
seized the advantage. He's immobilized their war elephants, their major
advantage, and he timed the counterattack perfectly."
"The battle has only just begun." Shirin took his hand for no reason at
all and gripped it. "And their major advantage was not elephants, but
numbers. I fear for him. Look, there." She pointed toward the east,
where the red sky now illuminated a vast sea of infantry, poised as
reinforcements. "The prince's Rajputs cannot stop them all. Prince
Jadar does not have the forces to meet them. I think he will be
defeated today, badly."
"And if he dies, do we die with him?"
"Perhaps not you. But they will surely kill me. And probably Mumtaz.
Most certainly they have orders to kill his son."
On the field below Jadar's cavalry fought as though possessed. Rajputs
with one, two, even three arrows in their back continued to sound their
war cry and take head after bearded head, until they finally slumped
unconscious from the saddle. Riderless horses, many with their stomachs
slashed open, could be seen running wildly through the Imperial ranks,
unused arrows still rattling in their saddle quivers.
Waves of Jadar's infantry had begun pouring down from the hills,
following the cavalry. The men wore heavy leather helmets and a skirt
of woven steel. A hood of steel netting hung down from each man's
helmet, protecting his face and neck. They advanced firing volley after
volley of arrows into the Imperial infantry. When they reached the
plain, they drew their long curved swords and, waving them above their
heads, threw themselves into the forces of Inayat Latif. The field
quickly became a vast arena of hand-to-hand combat, as inevitably
happened when two Indian armies met, with Jadar's forces badly
outnumbered.
Shirin watched the slaughter in silence for a time, as though tallying
the dead and dying on both sides, and then she turned her face away.
"Allah preserve us. Prince Jadar's Rajputs have eaten so much affion I
think they can fight even after they die, but their numbers are already
shrinking. How long can they protect the prince?"
"Where's he now?"
She turned back and peered through the dust on the field for a long
moment. Then she pointed. "He's on the field now. There, in the center.
Do you see him?" She paused. "He's very courageous to take the field so
early. It will inspire his men, but it's a very bad omen."
Hawksworth squinted toward the east. He could barely make out a phalanx
of elephants moving across the plains, into the middle of the fiercest
fighting. Several of the elephants had clusters of two-pound swivel
guns mounted on their backs, a few had rocket launchers, but most
carried howdahs filled with Rajput archers. In the center moved a large
black elephant, heavily armored and bearing a steel _howdah _decorated
with ornate gilding. Standing erect in the howdah, beneath a huge
embroidered umbrella, was the figure of Prince Jadar, loosing arrows in
rhythmic succession as the Imperial infantry closed around him.
"Why is it a bad sign?"
"It's unwise for the supreme commander of an army to expose himself so
early in the battle." Shirin was watching Jadar, transfixed. "If he's
killed, the battle will be over. All his troops will flee."
"Even his fearless Rajputs?"
"That's the way in India. If he's lost, what do they have left to fight
for? They will melt into the forest. In India a commander must always
be visible to his men, standing above the armor of his howdah, so
they'll know for certain he's alive."
As the circle of elephants surrounding Jadar advanced through the
field, a triple line of his Rajput infantry moved into place around
him. He quickly became the focus of the battle, and the Imperial
infantry massed to encircle him, like the king in a game of chess. His
protective buffer of elephants was coming under increasingly heavy
attack. The advantage of surprise enjoyed by his original offensive was
gone. Now he was clearly on the defensive.
"I think Jadar's starting to be in serious trouble. You were right. I
don't know how much longer his circle of elephants can protect him."
In the silence he slowly turned to Shirin and their eyes met. Nothing
more was said because no more words were needed. She reached out and
touched his lips and a lifetime seemed to flow between them. Then he
drew his sword and leaned over the edge of the howdah.
"Yes."
With a single stroke he severed the tether rope tying their elephant.
Their startled mahout turned and stared in disbelief. When Hawksworth
shouted at him to start, he hesitated for a moment, then flung his
barbed iron _ankus _into their _howdah _and plunged for the grass.
Hawksworth grabbed the _ankus_, but before he could move, the elephant
lifted its trunk into the morning air and emitted a long, defiant
trumpet. Then he plunged past the tethered _zenana _elephants and broke
into a gallop, eastward down the hill and directly toward the battle.
Hawksworth staggered backward and grasped the side of the swaying
_howdah_.
"How . . . how did he know?"
"Prince Jadar didn't give us a baggage elephant. He gave us one of his
personal war elephants. To protect you. He knows where he should be
now."
In only minutes their elephant reached the edge of the plain and began
advancing like a dreadnought through the swarm of Imperial infantry,
headed directly for Jadar. Any luckless infantryman caught in his path
would be seized in his trunk and flung viciously aside, or simply
crushed beneath his feet.
"But how could he know Jadar's threatened?"
"He knows. His whole life is to protect the prince."
A steel arrowhead sang off the side of the howdah. Then another thudded
into one of the wooden beams supporting the armor. Hawksworth grabbed
Shirin and shoved her down, below the steel rim. She fell sprawling and
turned to grab their bows. As Hawksworth took them and began to notch
the string on each one, he noticed for the first time that Jadar had
given them one of his combat _howdahs_, with firing holes all around
the sides.
War cries and sounds of steel on steel ranged around them as they
advanced, but their elephant seemed oblivious, only beginning to slow
when they approached the dense lines of Imperial infantry encircling
Jadar.
Hawksworth found his bow ring and slipped it awkwardly over his right
thumb. Then he strung an arrow and took aim through one of the firing
holes in the side of the howdah. The arrow sang off his thumb and
glanced harmlessly against the steel net cloak of an Imperial
infantryman. The man looked up, then paused to aim an arrow at the
howdah. It was a lethal decision. Their elephant turned and seized him
as he took aim, flinging him down and crushing him under its foot with
a single motion. At once the Imperial infantry again started to clear a
path in front of them.
"Jesus, I see why elephants are so feared on a battlefield."
"Yes, but they cannot fight the entire battle . . ." Shirin's voice
trailed off as she stared through a hole in the side of the _howdah_.
Suddenly her eyes flooded with fear. "Oh, Allah! Merciful Allah! Look!"
A close-ranked formation of Imperial horsemen, perhaps fifty in number,
was advancing toward them from the eastern perimeter of the plain. They
wore body armor of black steel and they ignored the infantry battling
around them as they charged directly for the circle of Jadar's
elephants.
"Who are they?"
"I think they're Latifs special Bundella guards. I've only heard about
them. His elephant must be near and he's ordered them to attack. He
must realize the prince is vulnerable now. He hopes to kill Prince
Jadar in a quick action and so end the battle." She stared over the
side of the steel _howdah _again. "If they fail, then he will send his
regular Rajput cavalry."
"What's so special about Bundellas?"
"They're from the region of Bundelkhand, and their horses are said to
be specially trained against elephants. The native Bundellas . . ." She
ducked down and stared wildly around the howdah as an arrow grazed by.
"Where ... the matchlocks!"
Hawksworth quickly pulled up one of the muskets and checked the prime.
He passed it to Shirin and took a second for himself. As he looked
again over the top of the _howdah_, he saw the elephants guarding Jadar
start turning to face the approaching horsemen. Their own elephant had
now reached the defense lines and it immediately assumed its normal
place in the protective circle.
Many of the approaching Bundellas were already being cut down by the
spears of the Rajput infantry, but over half managed to penetrate the
outer defense perimeter and reach the circle of elephants. The horsemen
immediately began firing rockets into Jadar's elephants from long
bamboo tubes they carried, intending to frighten them and disrupt their
ranks.
As Hawksworth watched, three of Jadar's encircling war elephants shied
skittishly away from the fireworks, creating a momentary opening in the
line. Before the opening could be secured, two of the Bundella cavalry
dashed through the space. Once inside the defense perimeter, they
parted, one riding toward either side of Jadar's elephant. One of the
horsemen took careful aim with his bow and shot a barbed arrow
connected to a line deep into the steel-net armor of the mahout seated
on the neck of Jadar's elephant. The horseman quickly whipped the
arrow's line around his saddle horn and reined his mount. The horse
seemed to know exactly what was expected, as it instantly reared
backward, unseating Jadar's mahout and toppling him into the dust.
As the mahout fell, his steel _ankus _clanged against Jadar's _howdah_,
momentarily distracting the prince. When he whirled to look for his
mahout, the other Bundella spurred his stallion alongside the
elephant's rump, lifting a heavy spear above his head. But instead of
hurtling the spear toward Jadar he turned and plunged it deep into the
ground beside the elephant.
"Shirin, what's he doing? How can . . . ?"
The horseman twirled his long reins around the shaft in a quick motion,
tethering the horse. Then he balanced himself atop the saddle,
unsheathed his sword, and with an agile leap landed on the armored rump
of Jadar's elephant.
He secured his balance in less than a second, then grabbed the side of
Jadar's gilded _howdah_. Hawksworth stared spellbound as a rain of
Rajput arrows glanced harmlessly off his black steel body armor.
"Now!" Shirin's voice was almost a scream.
As though in a dream, Hawksworth leveled the long barrel of his
matchlock against the rim of the _howdah _and took aim. The stock felt
alien and bulky in his grip, and its lacquer inlay smooth and cold. He
saw Shirin thrust her own musket alongside his own, struggling to keep
its heavy barrel balanced. As the horseman raised his sword to plunge
it into Jadar's exposed back, Hawksworth squeezed the gun's inlaid
trigger.
The stock kicked into his face and a burst of black smoke momentarily
blinded him. Shirin's matchlock had discharged at the same moment, and
he looked down as she tumbled backward against the padded side of the
howdah, still grasping the gun's heavy stock.
Then he heard a cheer from the Rajputs and turned in time to see the
Bundella spin in a half circle. Hawksworth realized one musket ball had
caught him directly in the face, the other in the groin. He vainly
reached to seize the side of Jadar's _howdah _to regain his balance,
but his foot skidded and he slipped backward . . . into a forest of
Rajput spears. The flash of a sword took his head. Jadar had never seen
him.
That settles one debt, you cocky bastard.
There were shouts from the other attackers still outside the defense
perimeter and two horsemen reined their mounts and charged toward
Hawksworth and Shirin. As they approached, the elephant began revolving
to meet them.
Hawksworth reached down and grabbed the last remaining musket and rose
to fire.
As he looked up, he stopped in astonishment, for a second refusing to
believe what he saw.
Both Bundelkhand horses were advancing on their hind legs, rearing and
bounding toward them in high leaps. He watched transfixed as one of the
Bundellas discharged his bow past the neck of his horse, directly at
the _howdah_. The arrow missed Shirin's dust-covered hair by only
inches.
Hawksworth lifted his matchlock and leveled it against the rim,
wondering for an instant whether to aim for the man or the horse. Then
the matchlock blazed and he watched the horseman buckle backward in the
saddle, toppling into a circle of waiting Rajput swords.
Suddenly the howdah shuddered, throwing him sprawling against the side.
As he pulled himself up, he realized the other horse had secured its
front feet against the side of their elephant. The Bundella was staring
directly in his face, pulling an arrow from his saddle quiver.
The horseman's bow was already half drawn when Hawksworth heard the
sing of a bowstring beside him. As he watched, the end of a shaft
suddenly appeared in the right
cheek of the Bundella, buried to the feathers. The horseman's own arrow
slammed into the side of the _howdah_, and he reached to claw at his
face with his saddle hand, forfeiting his grip. As he slipped backward
off the rearing horse, the Rajput infantrymen beheaded him in midair.
Hawksworth turned to see Shirin drop her bow onto the floor of the
_howdah_. She slumped against the steel side, her eyes glazed with
incredulity at what she had done.
They watched wordlessly as the perimeter of Jadar's elephants was again
drawn together and secured. As the other horsemen were driven back, a
coherent defense barricade of concentric circles was gradually
established around the prince. The outer perimeter was a line of Rajput
infantry armed with long spears. Inside their line were Rajput
swordsmen, who now had linked together the skirts of their long, steel-
mesh cloaks to form a solid barrier. And inside these was the last
defense line, the circle of armored war elephants.
As their own elephant instinctively rejoined the line protecting Jadar,
Hawksworth reached to touch Shirin's hand. As he did, he noticed her
thumb was bleeding and realized for the first time she had not been
supplied a bow ring.
"I think we can hold off the infantry with the elephants. But I don't
know how long . . ." Her voice trailed off as he looked up at her face.
She was leaning against the side of the _howdah_, pointing wordlessly
toward the east.
He turned to see a vast wave of the Imperial Rajput horsemen bearing
down on their position. They numbered in the thousands.
"God Almighty." He reached weakly for another arrow, trying to count
those remaining in the quiver and asking if he would live long enough
to shoot them all. "It's over."
Their battle cry lifted above the plain as the approaching cavalry
neared the edge of the massed Imperial infantry engulfing Jadar. They
began advancing directly through the infantry, not slowing, heading
straight for Jadar.
Hawksworth notched an arrow and rose up in the _howdah_
to take aim. He drew back the string and picked the man in the lead for
the first arrow.
As he sighted the Rajput's bearded face down the shaft, he suddenly
froze.
The Rajput had just driven the long point of his spear into an Imperial
infantryman.
Hawksworth lowered his bow in disbelief and stared as the approaching
Imperial cavalry began cutting down their own infantry, taking heads as
they rode toward Jadar, leaving a carpet of death in their bloody wake.
"Holy Jesus, what's happening? They're attacking their own troops! Are
they sotted with opium too?"
Suddenly their chant of "Ram Ram" was taken up by the Rajputs
surrounding Jadar, and they turned on the Imperial infantry nearest
them with the ferocity of a wounded tiger.
"Today Allah took on the armor of a Rajput." Shirin slumped against the
side of the howdah and dropped her bow. "I had prayed they would all
one day join with the prince, but I never really believed it would
happen."
Jadar's circle of war elephants began to cut their way through the
remaining infantry to join the Rajput forces, swivel guns blazing from
their backs. In what seemed only minutes his entourage merged with the
vanguard of Rajput cavalry, and together they moved like a steel
phalanx against the Imperial infantry reserves waiting in the east.
Hawksworth watched as the Imperial lines were cut, separating the
infantry fighting on the plain from their reserves. Next a corps of
Rajput horsemen wielding long spears overran the Imperial gun
emplacements, then grouped to assault the Imperial command post. When
the elephant bearing the banner of Inayat Latif started for higher
ground, discipline in the Imperial ranks evaporated.
By late afternoon the outcome was no longer in question. A final
attempt by the Imperial forces to regroup disintegrated into a rout,
with thousands of fleeing Imperial infantry falling before the swords
and spears of the Rajput cavalry. Only the merciful descent of dark
enabled Inayat Latif and his Imperial commanders to escape death at the
hands of pursuing Rajput archers.
As Hawksworth rode with Jadar's entourage through the dusty, smoke-
shrouded battlefield, headed back for the camp, he felt he was
witnessing the gaping mouth of hell. The plain was littered with the
bodies of almost forty thousand men and over ten thousand horses. The
proud war cries were forgotten. Through the dusky twilight came the
plaintive moans of dying men and the shrill neighing of shattered
horses. Rajputs moved among the bodies, plundering the dead enemy,
searching for fallen comrades, dispatching with their long swords any
lingering men or horses who could not be saved.
All because of Jadar, Hawksworth thought, and his stomach sickened. Now
what will happen? Jadar won the day in this valley, in the middle of
nowhere, but the Moghul is still in Agra, and tonight he still rules
India. And I think he'll still rule India, if only in name, till the
day he dies. Jadar can't march against the Red Fort in Agra, not with
this ragtag army. Even his division of Rajput defectors couldn't storm
that fortress. I'm not sure God himself could take the Red Fort. So
what now, noble Prince Jadar? So far you've merely brought death to
half the fighting men in India.
The torchbearers marching four abreast at the front of their elephants
were now approaching the remains of the camp. Through the flickering
light emerged the vision of a burned-out ruin. Scorched furrows from
the first Imperial cannonade trailed between, among, through the few
remaining tents. Small clusters of wounded men, some begging for water
and some for death, were being fed opium and their wounds wrapped with
the shreds of ripped-apart tents.
Jadar moved through the camp, acknowledging the triumphant cheers of
his men. Ahead his servants were already erecting a new chintz wall
around the _gulal bar _and replacing the tents for the _zenana_.
Hawksworth watched as carpets were unrolled from bullock carts and
carried inside the compound.
Jadar's elephant proceeded instinctively to the very entry of the
_gulal bar_, where it kneeled for him to dismount. Around him Rajputs
pushed forward to cheer and _teslim_. As he stood acknowledging them,
the other elephants also began to kneel. Jadar's servants rushed
forward to help Hawksworth and Shirin alight.
"This was the most horrible day I've ever known." Her arms closed
around his neck as her feet touched ground, and she held him for a long
moment, tears staining her cheeks. "I've never before seen so much
killing. I pray to Allah I never see it again."
Hawksworth returned her embrace, then looked at her sadly. "There'll be
a lot more before Jadar sees Agra, if he ever does. This is just one
battle, not the war. I'm not sure we want to be here to find out how it
ends."
She looked back at him and smiled wistfully in silence. Then she turned
and performed the _teslim _to Jadar.
The prince was scarcely recognizable. His helmet had been torn by
countless arrows, or matchlock fire, and his haughty face and beard
were smeared with dust and smoke. The emerald bow ring was missing from
his right thumb, which was now caked with blood. Beneath his armor the
torn leather of his right sleeve was stained blood-dark, where he had
ripped out an arrow. As he lifted his arms to acknowledge the rising
cheers, his eyes were shadowed and tired, but they betrayed no pain.
Hawksworth turned and examined Jadar's _howdah_. It was a forest of
arrows and broken spear shafts. Grooms from the stables had already
brought water and sugarcane for his elephant and begun extracting iron
arrowheads from its legs and from a section of its right shoulder where
its armor had been shot away.
As he watched the scene, Hawksworth slowly became aware of a pathway
being cleared through the camp toward the east. Next, the cheers of
some of Jadar's Rajputs began to swell through the smoky air. Through
the encroaching dark, there slowly emerged the form of another elephant
approaching. In the torchlight he could tell it was regal in size and
bore a gilded _howdah _shaded by a wide brocade umbrella. There were no
arrows in the side of this _howdah_, nor was there more than a trace of
dust on the elephant's gilded and enameled armor. With its elaborate
decoration of swinging yak tails and tinkling bells, it seemed more
suited for a royal procession than for a battlefield.
Jadar watched impassively as the elephant neared the center of the
clearing. While the Rajputs around him stood at attention, the elephant
performed a small bow, then began to kneel with practiced dignity.
Several Rajputs rushed forward to help the rider alight.
The man's jeweled turban and rows of finger rings sparkled in the
torchlight. As he moved directly toward Jadar, Hawksworth suddenly
recognized the walk and caught his breath.
It was Nadir Sharif.
The prime minister paused a few feet from Jadar and salaamed lightly.
He did not _teslim_, nor did he speak. As he stood waiting, from out of
the darkness of the _gulal bar _the figure of a woman emerged. She was
veiled, surrounded by her women, and accompanied by a line of eunuchs
wearing sheathed scimitars in their waist sash. She stopped and
performed the _teslim _to Jadar. Then she turned to Nadir Sharif.
He stared at her for a long moment, then said something in Persian.
Without a word she lifted her veil and threw it back. Next she turned
and gestured to one of the servants standing behind her. The servant
stepped forward with a bundle wrapped in a brocade satin blanket and
carried it directly to Nadir Sharif.
The prime minister stood for a moment as though unsure whether to take
it. Finally he reached out and lifted the blanket from the servant and
cradled it against one arm. He stared down for a long moment, his eyes
seeming to cloud, and then he pushed back part of the blanket to
examine its contents more closely. With a withered finger, he reached
in and stroked something inside the blanket. Then he looked up and
smiled and said something to Jadar in Persian. The prince laughed and
strolled to his side, taking the blanket in his own smoke-smeared hands
and peering down into it with Nadir Sharif. They exchanged more words
in Persian, laughed again, and then Nadir Sharif walked to the waiting
woman, whose dark eyes now brimmed with joy. He stood looking at her
for a long moment, then spoke to her in Persian and enfolded her in his
arms.
A cheer went up again from the onlookers, as they pushed forward to
watch. Hawksworth turned to Shirin.
"Is that who I think it is?"
Shirin nodded, her eyes misting. "It's Mumtaz, the first wife of Prince
Jadar and the only daughter of Nadir Sharif. He told Prince Jadar he
decided today he wanted to see his grandson, since he wanted to see the
face of the child who would be Moghul himself one day. Then he told
Mumtaz he will die in peace now, knowing that his blood will someday
flow in the veins of the Moghul of India." Shirin's voice started to
choke. "I can't tell you what this moment means. It's the beginning of
just rule for India. Nadir Sharif knew that if Prince Jadar was
defeated today, the child would be murdered by Janahara. By defecting
with his Rajputs, he saved Prince Jadar, and he saved his grandson."
She paused again. "And he saved us too."
"When do you think he decided to do this?"
"I don't know. I still can't believe it's true."
Hawksworth stopped for a moment, then whirled and seized her arm.
"Jadar knew! By Jesus, he knew last night! The cavalry. He said the
cavalry had to be held to the last. He knew they would turn on the
Imperial infantry if he began to lose._ He knew all along_."
Shirin examined him with a curious expression. "I wonder if Mumtaz
herself planned it. Perhaps she convinced Nadir Sharif to save his
grandson." She paused. "This must have been the most closely guarded
secret in all of Agra. Nadir Sharif somehow kept even the queen from
knowing he would defect with the Rajputs or she would have surely
killed him." Shirin's voice trailed off as she pondered the
implications. "He's astonishing. Janahara has never entirely trusted
him, but somehow he must have convinced her to let him command the
Rajput cavalry. What did he do to make her finally trust him?"
Nadir Sharif embraced Mumtaz once more, then bowed lightly again to
Jadar and turned to leave. As his glance swept the torchlit crowd, he
noticed Hawksworth. He stopped for a second, as though not believing
what he saw, then broke into a wide smile.
"By the beard of the Prophet! Can it be? My old guest?" He moved toward
Hawksworth, seeming not to notice Shirin. "May Allah preserve you,
Ambassador, everyone at court thinks you've fled India. For your sake I
almost wish you had. What in God's name are you doing here?"
"Someone tried to murder me at Fatehpur." Hawksworth turned and took
Shirin's arm. "And Shirin. It seemed like a good time to switch sides."
"Someone actually tried to kill you? I do hope you're jesting with me."
"Not at all. If Vasant Rao and his men hadn't appeared in time to help
us, we'd both be dead now."
Nadir Sharifs eyes darkened and he looked away for a moment. "I must
tell you that shocks even me." He turned back and smiled. "But I'm
pleased to see you're still very much alive."
Hawksworth studied Nadir Sharif for a moment. "Do you have any idea who
might have ordered it?"
"This world of ours is fraught with evil, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif
shook his head in resignation. "I sometimes marvel any of us survive
it." Then he looked back at Hawksworth and beamed. "But then I've
always found you to be a man blessed with rare fortune, Ambassador. I
think Allah must truly stand watch over you night and day. You seem to
live on coincidences. I was always amazed that just when His Majesty
ordered you out of Agra, the Portuguese decided to seize one of His
Majesty's personal cargo vessels and by that imprudent folly restored
you to favor. Now I hear you were attacked in the Fatehpur camp by some
scurrilous hirelings . . . at the very moment the prince's Rajputs just
happened to be nearby to protect you. I only wish I enjoyed a small
portion of your luck." He smiled. "But what will you be doing now? Will
you be joining with us or will you stay with the prince?"
"What do you mean?"
"I understand His Highness is striking camp tomorrow and marching west
for the Rajput city of Udaipur. The new _maharana _there, a
distinguished if somewhat renegade Rajput prince named Karan Singh,
apparently has offered his lake palace as a refuge for the prince."
"I don't seem to have much choice. I'm probably no more welcome in Agra
right now than you are."
Nadir Sharif examined him quizzically for a moment. "I'm not sure I
understand exactly what you mean." Then he broke into laughter.
"Ambassador, surely you don't assume I had anything to do with the
tragedy today. The honest truth is I used every means at my command to
dissuade the Rajput cavalry from their insidious treachery. They
absolutely refused to heed anything I said. In fact, I actually tried
to forewarn Her Majesty something just like this might happen."
"What are you talking about!"
"Their betrayal was astonishing, and I must tell you frankly, entirely
unaccountable. I intend to prepare a complete report for Her Majesty.
But this is merely a temporary setback for us, never fear." He turned
and bowed lightly to Shirin, acknowledging her for the first time. "I
really must be leaving for the Imperial camp now. We've scheduled a war
council tonight to plan our next strategy." He smiled. "I feel I should
counsel you once again that you've chosen very unsavory company. Prince
Jadar is a thorough disgrace to the empire." He bowed lightly once more
to Hawksworth, then to Shirin, and turned to remount his elephant.
"Good night, Ambassador. Perhaps someday soon we'll drink _sharbat
_together again in Agra."
Even as he spoke, his elephant rose and began to move out. His last
words were drowned by cheering Rajputs.
"He'll never get away with it." Hawksworth watched incredulously as the
elephant began delicately picking its way through the shattered camp.
"Oh yes he will. You don't know Nadir Sharif as I do."
Hawksworth turned to stare in bewilderment at Jadar. The prince was
standing next to Mumtaz, their faces expressionless. As Nadir Sharif's
elephant disappeared into the dark, Mumtaz said something in Persian
and gestured toward Shirin. She replied in the same language and they
moved together, embracing.
"Your face is still fresh as the dawn, though your _kohl _is the dust
of war." Mumtaz's Persian was delicate and laced with poetic allusions.
She kissed Shirin, then looked down and noticed her right hand. "And
what happened to your thumb?"
"I had no bow ring. You know we aren't supposed to shoot."
"Or do anything else except bear sons." Mumtaz flashed a mock frown in
the direction of Jadar. "If I would let him, His Highness would treat
me like some stupid Arab wet nurse instead of a Persian." She embraced
Shirin again and kissed her once more. "I also know you learned to fire
a matchlock today."
"How did you find out?"
"Some of the Rajputs saw you shoot a Bundella horseman who had breached
their lines and reached His Highness' elephant. One of them told my
eunuchs." Her voice dropped. "He said you saved His Highness' life. I
want to thank you."
"It was my duty."
"No, it was your love. I'm sorry I dare not tell His Highness what you
did. He must never find out. He's already worried about too many
obligations. You saw what just happened tonight with father. I think
he's very troubled about what price he may be asked to pay someday for
what happened today."
"I must tell you the English _feringhi _also shot the Bundella who had
mounted His Highness' elephant."
"Is he the one there?" Mumtaz nodded discreetly toward Hawksworth, who
stood uncomprehending, his haggard face and jerkin smeared with smoke.
Her voice had risen slightly and now her Persian was lilting again.
"He's the one."
Mumtaz scrutinized Hawksworth with a quick flick of her eyes, never
looking up. "He's interesting. Truly as striking as I'd heard."
"I love him more than my life. I wish you could know him." Shirin's
Persian was equally as genteel as that of Mumtaz.
"But is he yet a worthy lover in your bed?" Mumtaz's smile was almost
hidden. "I sent your message to father about the Hindu _devadasi_."
Shirin smiled and said nothing.
"Then you must bring him with us to Udaipur."
"If His Highness will have us there."
"/ will have you there." She laughed and looked again at Hawksworth.
"If you'll tell me sometime what it's like to share your pillow with a
_feringhi_."
"Captain Hawksworth." Jadar's martial voice rose above the assembled
crowd of congratulating Rajputs. "Didn't I notice you on the field
today? I thought I had assigned you to guard my _zenana_. Are you aware
the punishment for disobeying orders in an army in India is immediate
beheading? Of if you like, I can have you shot from a cannon, as is
sometimes done. Which would you prefer?"
"Your cannon were mostly overrun. I guess you'll have to behead me, if
you can find anyone left with a sword sharp enough."
Jadar roared and pulled out his own sword. There was a deep nick in the
blade.
"By tomorrow I'm sure we can find one. In the meantime I'll have to
confine you in the _gulal bar _to prevent your escape." He slipped the
sword back into his belt. "Tell me, did you manage to hit anything
today with your matchlocks?"
"Possibly. There were so many in the Imperial infantry I may have
succeeded in hitting someone."
Jadar laughed again. "From the looks of her thumb, it would seem the
woman in your _howdah _did most of the shooting. I'm astounded you'd
permit her such liberty."
"She has a mind of her own."
"Like all Persians." Jadar reached and lowered Mumtaz's veil over her
face. She let it hang for a moment, then shoved it back again. "Allah
protect us." He turned and stared a moment into the dark, toward the
direction Nadir Sharif had departed. "Yes, Allah protect us from all
Persians and from all Persian ambition." Then he suddenly remembered
himself and glanced back at Hawksworth. "So tonight we may eat lamb
together after all, if there's one still to be found. But not yet in
Paradise. For that you will have to wait a few days longer."
Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably. "What exactly do you mean?"
"Udaipur, Captain, tomorrow we strike camp and march for Udaipur. It's
a Rajput paradise." He turned and beckoned toward the Rajput commander
who had ridden from Fatehpur with them. "It's time you met my friend
Mahdu Singh, brother of His Highness, Rana Karan Singh, the Maharana of
Udaipur. The _maharana _has generously offered us his new guest palace,
on his island of Jagmandir. It's on Pichola Lake, in the Rajput capital
of Udaipur. He was only just building the palace when I was there
before, but I seem to remember it's designed in a very interesting new
style." He glanced at Mumtaz. "I think Her Highness will approve." Then
he continued. "Rajputana, Captain, is beautiful. What's more, its
mountains are impregnable. I led the only Moghul army ever to escape
defeat by the Rajputs who live in those mountains. But today I have
many loyal friends there." Mahdu Singh bowed lightly to Hawksworth
while Jadar watched in satisfaction. "His Highness, the Maharana, may
decide to make a Rajput out of you and keep you there, if you seem
worth the trouble. Who can tell?"
He turned and dismissed Mumtaz and her eunuchs with a wave. He watched
fondly as she disappeared into the _gulal bar_, then turned and joined
the waiting Rajputs. Together they moved out through the camp,
embracing and consoling.
"Did you hear what he said?" Hawksworth turned to Shirin, who stood
waiting, a light smile erasing some of the fatigue in her face. "He's
planning to recruit another army of Rajputs. This war is only
beginning. Good Christ, when will it end?"
"When he's Moghul. Nothing will stop him now." She took his hand, and
together they pushed through the shattered gulal bar toward the remains
of their tent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The advance of Prince Jadar's army west toward the Rajput
stronghold of Udaipur was like nothing Brian Hawksworth had ever seen.
Jadar was marching into the heart of ancient Rajput country, and the
movement of his army suddenly came to resemble a triumphant victory
procession.
The heavy artillery formed the first contingent, drawn by teams of
elephants and bullocks. Two thousand infantry moved in front, smoothing
the ground with spades. The army's baggage animals followed the
artillery, and after this came Jadar's personal treasury--camels loaded
with gold and silver coin--together with his records and archives. Next
in the line of march were elephants carrying the _zenana _women's
jewels and a collection of ornate swords and daggers that Jadar
periodically gave to his officers as presents. Then came the water
camels, and finally Jadar's kitchen and provisions. The baggage was
followed by the ordinary cavalry, and after them rode Jadar and his
retinue of nobles. Behind him came his _zenana_. The rear of the
procession was brought up by women and servants, then elephants,
camels, and mules carrying the remainder of the baggage and tents.
Some of Jadar's _zenana _women traveled in gilded _chaudols _carried on
the shoulders of four bearers and shaded with netting of colored
embroidered silk. Others were transported in enclosed palanquins, also
covered with silk nets decorated with gold fringe and tassels. Still
others chose to ride in swaying litters suspended between two elephants
or two strong camels. A female slave walked near each litter carrying a
peacock tail to brush off dust and keep away flies.
Jadar's first and favorite wife, Mumtaz, seemed to scorn all these
comforts, displaying herself regally all day long from atop her own
personal elephant, riding in a gold _howdah _shaded by a vast tapestry
umbrella. Her elephant was festooned with embroideries, yak tails, and
large silver bells; and directly behind her, on six smaller elephants,
rode the women of her immediate household. Her eunuchs rode clustered
around her on horses, each carrying a wand signifying his office and
sweating profusely beneath his jeweled turban. A vanguard of footmen
with bamboo canes walked ahead of Mumtaz's elephant clearing a path
through the crowds.
Jadar himself traveled mainly on his favorite Arabian horse--except when
passing through cities, when he would switch to a conspicuously
bedecked elephant--surrounded by the high-ranking nobles. Trailing out
behind this first circle were the ranks of the lesser _mansabdars_, who
rode in full military dress, displaying swords, bows, shields. While
this procession inched along at its regal pace, Jadar and his nobles
frequently paused ostentatiously to bag tiger or chase stripe-eared
antelope with the prince's brace of hunting _chitahs_.
A complete set of tents for Jadar and his _zenana _traveled a day
ahead, to ensure that a fully prepared camp always awaited him and his
women when, at approximately three in the afternoon, the procession
would stop and begin to settle for the night. Each of his larger tents
could be disassembled into three separate sections, and all of these
together required a full fifty baggage elephants for transport. Moving
the smaller tents required almost a hundred camels. Wardrobes and
kitchen utensils were carried by some fifty mules, and special porters
carried by hand Jadar's personal porcelains, his gilt beds, and a few
of his silk tents.
The procession was a lavish display of all the wealth and arms Jadar
had remaining. And nothing about it hinted that his was an army on the
run . . . which in fact it was.
Hawksworth puzzled over Jadar's extravagant pomp for several days,
finding it uncharacteristic, and finally concluded it was a deliberate
Indian strategy.
Jadar has to raise another army and quickly. He'll not do it if he has
the look of a fugitive and loser about him. He's managed to hold the
Imperial army at bay for a while, wound them enough to escape
entrapment. But he's wounded too, and badly. The Imperial army may be
shattered for the moment, but Jadar's lost half his own men. The winner
will be the one who can rebuild first and attack. If Jadar doesn't make
some alliances and get some men soon, Inayat Latif and the queen will
chase him from one end of India to the other.
Along the way a few independent Rajput chieftains had come to his
banner, but not enough. When Hawksworth asked Shirin what she thought
Jadar's chances were of raising a Rajput army large enough to face
Inayat Latif, she had made no effort to conceal her concern.
"The greatest Rajput nobles are waiting to see whether Maharana Karan
Singh of Udaipur will decide to openly support him. He's the leader of
the ranas of Mewar, which is the name for the lands of Rajputana around
Udaipur, and they're the highest in rank of all the Rajput chieftains
of India. If Maharana Karan Singh agrees to support him with his own
army, the other ranas of Mewar may follow, and after them perhaps all
of Rajputana."
"What do you mean? He's providing Jadar a place to stay, or at least to
hide while he licks his wounds. That looks like support to me."
Shirin had tried to smile. "Permitting Prince Jadar to camp in Udaipur
doesn't necessarily imply support. It could also be interpreted merely
as traditional Rajput hospitality. It's one thing to open your
guesthouse to a son of the Moghul. It's something quite different to
commit your army to aid his rebellion." She drew her horse closer to
Hawksworth's. "You see, Maharana Karan Singh and his father Amar Singh
before him have had a treaty of peace with Arangbar for almost ten
years, after many decades of bloody war between Mewar and the Moghuls.
There are many Rajput chieftains in Mewar who do not want him to
renounce that treaty. They're weary of Moghul armies invading Rajputana
and burning their fields and cities. Prince Jadar will have to
negotiate with Maharana Karan Singh if he's to be persuaded to help.
The prince will have to offer him something in return for his aid. For
the risk he'll be taking should the prince lose. That's why the other
Rajputs are waiting. Everyone here knows the prince has no chance if
the maharana withholds his support."
A noticeable feeling of relief swept through the long columns of
Jadar's cavalry the afternoon that Maharana Karan Singh was sighted
riding out on his elephant, surrounded by a retinue of his personal
guard, to welcome Prince Jadar at the high stone gate leading through
the walls of the mountain city of Udaipur. Throughout the ranks of
Jadar's bedraggled army it was seen as a positive omen.
The army and the lesser _mansabdars _camped outside the city walls; the
highest-ranking nobles were invited to stay in the maharana's city
palace, set on a high cliff overlooking Pichola Lake; and Jadar, his
_zenana_, and his personal guards were ferried with much pomp across to
the new guest palace on Jagmandir Island, in the center of the lake. As
one of Arangbar's khans and a foreign ambassador, Brian Hawksworth was
installed by the maharana in a special suite in his city palace
reserved for dignitaries.
In an even more auspicious gesture, the maharana invited Prince Jadar
to dine with him in the palace that evening. The ancient Rajputana
tradition of hospitality did not normally require dining with your
guests, and the Rajput chieftains traveling with Jadar were again
heartened. Late in the afternoon, an invitation also arrived requesting
that Ambassador Hawksworth and Shirin, characterized as Jadar's
personal aide, join the dinner.
"Why do you think he wants us?" When the maharana's servants had left,
Hawksworth showed the gilded invitation to Shirin. She was on their
balcony watching white-necked cranes glide across the surface of
Pichola Lake, spreading out hundreds of feet below them.
"Perhaps the maharana is curious to meet a _feringhi_. I'm sure he's
never seen one before." She hesitated. "Or perhaps Prince Jadar
arranged for you to be there. To imply he has the support of the
English king's warships."
"You know I don't speak for King James on matters of war."
"Tonight you must appear to do so. I'm sure your king would help Prince
Jadar if he knew him."
"He'll support him if he becomes Moghul."
"Then you must help Prince Jadar tonight. So that he will."
Shirin had overseen the servants who had been sent to clean and repair
Hawksworth's doublet and hose. Then a bath was brought, accompanied by
barbers and manicurists. The maharana sent a vial of musk perfume to
Shirin, buried in a basket of flowers. By the time they were escorted
through the high scalloped archway leading into the palace banquet
hall, they both were bathed, perfumed, and refreshed; and Hawksworth
again looked almost like an ambassador.
Accustomed to the red sandstone of Agra, he was momentarily astounded
to see a room fashioned entirely from purest white marble. The hall was
long and wide, with two rows of bracketed columns its entire length.
Maharana Karan Singh sat at the far end in front of a marble screen,
his gold wand of office at his side, reclining against an enormous
bolster of gold brocade. He appeared to be Jadar's age, with eyes that
sparkled mischievously, a long Rajput moustache, glistening with wax,
which curled upward at the ends, and a turban of gold brocade. He wore
a long red and white striped satin skirt beneath a translucent cloak.
His necklace and earrings were matching green emeralds. Seated around
him, on red carpets woven with designs of fighting elephants, were his
Rajput nobles, each in white with an orange turban and a gold-trimmed
brocade sash at his waist. Every Rajput in the room had a gold-handled
katar.
Jadar saw Hawksworth and Shirin enter and rose to greet them. The
prince was dressed in his finest, with a cloak of gold cloth, pale
green trousers, red velvet slippers, a long double string of pearls
around his neck, and a pink silk turban crisscrossed with flowered
brocade and secured with a large ruby. He led Hawksworth before the
maharana and introduced him, in Rajasthani. Jadar then translated the
introduction into Turki for Hawksworth, who was startled to learn that
he was a high-ranking member of Angrezi--English--royalty. He looked
around and realized he was easily the most shabbily attired man in the
room, including the servants.
After the introduction Hawksworth took his place among Jadar's own
retinue of nobles. Shirin was seated on the carpet directly behind him.
All the guests sat in a line facing a long gold-threaded cloth spread
along the floor. Food was brought in on silver trays, which were placed
on silver stools directly in front of each diner. Hawksworth had
scarcely taken his seat before a full wine cup was placed in his hands.
It was never allowed to approach dryness.
The banquet was lavish, equaling anything he had seen in Agra. It was
immediately apparent that roast game was the speciality of Udaipur, as
tray after tray of antelope, venison, hare, and wild duck were placed
before him. In its emphasis on roasted meats, the food could almost
have been English, save it was all seasoned with spices he had never
tasted in London. The centerpiece was an elaborately glazed wild boar
the maharana had bagged personally from horseback with a spear. Nominal
Muslim though he was, Prince Jadar downed a generous portion of the
boar and praised the flavor.
The trays of meat were accompanied by spiced curds, local yogurts, and
baked vegetables swimming in ghee. The meal concluded with dried fruits
which had been sugared and perfumed, followed by mouth-freshening
_pan_, the betel leaves wrapped around spiced bhang, currants, sweet
imported coconut.
The final offering, eagerly awaited by all the Rajputs, was opium. As
they popped down handfuls of the brown balls, Hawksworth discreetly
signaled for more wine. After the dishes were cleared, several jeweled
women in red trousers and thin billowing blouses entered, drank glasses
of wine in honor of the maharana, then danced among the guests to the
accompaniment of a large sarangi.
After the dancers had been dismissed, Prince Jadar rose
and proposed a toast to the maharana. The toast was ceremonial,
elaborate, and--it seemed--entirely expected by everyone.
"To His Highness, the Maharana of Udaipur: whose line flows directly
from the great Kusa, son of Rama, King of Ajodhya and the noble hero of
the Ramayana. Descendant of the Royal House of the Sun, whose subjects
will refuse their food if neither he nor his brother the Sun are
present to show their face upon it and bless it."
The maharana's reply was equally effusive, describing Jadar as the
greatest Moghul warrior in all of history, the equal of his Mongol
forebears Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, a worthy descendant of the early
Moghul conquerors Babur and Humayun, and finally, the one Moghul whose
martial skills might actually approach those of the fighting Rajputs of
Mewar--an oblique reference to the fact that Jadar had led the Moghul
army that subdued Mewar a decade earlier and induced its Rajputs to
finally acknowledge Moghul dominance over northwest India.
Immoderate praise of one another's armies followed next. Then the
maharana said something else, and Jadar turned suddenly toward
Hawksworth.
"Ambassador Hawksworth. His Highness has asked to speak with you."
Hawksworth rose from the carpet and moved forward. Around him the
Udaipur Rajputs studied him with open curiosity. They had listened to
lavish toasts for years, but none had ever before seen a _feringhi _in
a doublet. The very concept of such a phenomenon exceeded their
imagination.
"His Highness has asked permission to allow his court painters to make
your portrait, so that he may remember your likeness. Dressed as you
are tonight. Do you have any objection?"
"Please tell His Highness I would be honored." Hawksworth found himself
startled, and unsure what reply was appropriate. "Please tell him that
my own father was once a painter in England."
Jadar smiled through his teeth. "You mean I should tell him there are
of course many skilled artists in your noble land of England. Your own
father, as we both know, was a great khan in England, not a lowly
craftsman."
As Hawksworth nodded dully, Jadar turned and translated this to the
maharana. Karan Singh's eyes brightened as he replied to Jadar.
"He asks if your king's painters are expert in Ragamala?"
"I'm not entirely sure what His Highness refers to." Hawksworth
examined Jadar with a puzzled expression.
Jadar translated and the Rajput looked surprised. He turned and quickly
said something to one of the servants, who vanished and reappeared
moments later with a leatherbound folio. The maharana spoke briefly to
Jadar, then passed the book.
"The maharana politely suggests that possibly your English king's
painters have not yet achieved the sophistication required for
Ragamala. He asks me to show you one of his personal albums." Jadar
opened the book and handed it to Hawksworth.
It was filled with vibrant miniature paintings, executed on heavy
sheets of paper that had been treated with a white pigment of rice
water and lavishly embellished with gold leaf. They showed round-eyed
young women with firm breasts and slender wrists lounging in
beautifully stylized gardens and courtyards, playing gilded instruments
or sensuously embracing their lovers, many surrounded by doves,
peacocks, tame deer, and tapestry-covered elephants. In some the blue-
faced god Krishna played an instrument that looked something like a
sitar, to the wistful gaze of longing doe-eyed women whose breasts
swelled through their gauze wraps. The paintings imparted to Hawksworth
a curious world of emotional intensity: a celebration of life, love,
and devotion.
"Each Ragamala painting depicts the mood of a specific raga." Jadar
pointed to one of a jeweled woman feeding a peacock which leaned down
from a white marble rooftop, while her lover reached his arms to
encircle her. "This is a raga named Hindol, a morning raga of love. The
Ragamala paintings of Mewar are a perfect blend of music, poetry, and
pure art." Jadar winked. "After the maharana has painted you in your
native costume, perhaps he will have his artists paint you as the young
god Krishna, enticing some milkmaids to your leafy bed."
The maharana spoke again to Jadar.
"He asks whether these are anything like the paintings your king's
artists create for English ragas?"
"Tell him we don't have ragas in England. Our music is different."
Jadar tried to mask his discomfort. "Perhaps I should merely say your
English ragas are in a different style from those we have in India. He
will not be impressed to learn that English music is not yet advanced
enough to have developed the raga."
Jadar's reply seemed to satisfy the maharana. He turned and said
something to one of the men sitting near him.
"His Highness has ordered that you be given an album of Ragamala
paintings to take back to your king, so the painters at his court may
try to copy them and begin to learn greatness."
"His Majesty, King James, will be deeply honored by the rana's gift."
Hawksworth bowed diplomatically, deciding not to inform the maharana
that King James had no painters and little taste.
The maharana beamed in satisfaction and dismissed Hawksworth with a
nod.
Then the exchange of gifts began. Jadar produced a gold cloak for the
maharana, a jewel-encrusted sword, a jeweled saddle, and promised to
deliver an elephant with a silver howdah. The maharana in turn gave
Jadar an emerald the size of a large walnut, a gilded shield studded
with jewels, and a brace of jeweled katars. Each thanked the other
extravagantly and set the presents aside.
Then Jadar suddenly stood up and began removing his turban. The room
fell silent at this unprecedented act.
"Tonight, in gratitude for his friendship, for his offer of an abode to
one who no longer has any roof save a tent, I offer to His Highness,
the Maharana of Udaipur, my own turban, that he may have a lasting
token of my gratitude. That in the years ahead when, Allah willing,
these dark days are past, we will neither of us forget my indebtedness
on this night."
As Jadar stepped forward to present the turban, the maharana's eyes
flooded with emotion. Before Jadar had moved more than a pace, Karan
Singh was on his feet, ripping off his own turban. They met in the
center of the room, each reverently placing his own turban on the
other's head, then embracing.
Hawksworth looked around the room and saw Rajputs who would gut an
enemy without a blink now near to tears. He leaned back toward Shirin.
"What's the significance of the turbans?"
"It's the rarest gift any man could present to another. I've never
before heard of a Moghul or a Rajput giving his turban. The story of
this will be told throughout Mewar. We have just seen the creation of a
legend."
Then the maharana's voice rose. "Mewar, the abode of all that is
beautiful in the world, is made even more beautiful by your presence.
In years past we have stood shield to shield with you; tonight we
embrace you in friendship. We wish you victory over those who would
deny you your birthright, which you have earned both by blood and by
deed. No other in India is more fit to reign, more just to govern, more
honorable to his friends, more feared by his foes. Tonight we offer you
our hand and our prayers that Lord Krishna will always stand with you."
Hawksworth turned to Shirin and whispered. "What's he saying?"
Her eyes were dark. "He's delaying his answer to the prince. Offering
him prayers to Lord Krishna. Prince Jadar doesn't need prayers to
Krishna. He needs Rajputs. Thousands of Rajputs. But perhaps in time
the maharana can be convinced. Banquets are not the place for
negotiation. They're the place for perfumed talk."
Jadar was smiling as though he had just been offered the whole of
Rajputana. He managed to thank the maharana lavishly.
The maharana beamed and signaled for _pan _leaves again, signifying the
evening was ended. The room emptied in moments.
"I think Jadar could be in serious trouble." Hawksworth turned to
Shirin as they entered the hallway. "If he fails to get support here,
what will he do?"
"I don't know. I think he may still manage an alliance before he's
through. But it will be costly. Otherwise he'll probably have to move
south and try to convince Malik Ambar to commit him his Maratha army.
But Rajputs are better." She moved closer. "I'm suddenly so very, very
tired of armies and tents and strategies. I don't know where it will
end. Time is running out. For him and for us." She brushed him lightly
with her body. "Will you make love to me tonight as though we'd never
heard of Rajputs and Marathas? We'll look at the lake in the moonlight
and forget everything, just for tonight." She opened her hand. Inside
were several small brown balls. "I took some of the maharana's
_affion_. Tonight we have no battles to fight."
*
Hawksworth sat beside Shirin watching the oarsmen strain against the
locks, their orange oars flashing against the ornately gilded boat like
the immense gills of some ceremonial fish. A turbaned drummer sat at
one end, sounding the beat, and the tillerman stood behind him.
They were headed for Jagmandir Island, on the invitation of Prince
Jadar, in a boat provided by Maharana Karan Singh. Three weeks of
banquets, hunting, and oaths of lasting friendship seemed to have done
little to _Resolve_ the question of the maharana's support for Jadar's
rebellion. Time, Hawksworth told himself, is starting to work heavily
against the prince. The Imperial army let us escape because they were
too shattered to attack again. But we all know they're rebuilding.
Jadar has to decide soon how much longer he can afford to stay here and
listen to vague promises.
Behind them the high walls and turrets of the maharana's palace towered
above the cliff, reflecting gold in the late afternoon sun. As they
neared the island, Hawksworth turned back to see the thick stone walls
of the city following the curve of the surrounding hilltops and finally
angling down to a tall watchtower at the very edge of the lake. He
realized the lake itself was actually the city's fourth defense
barrier.
Ahead, the white sandstone palace on Jagmandir glistened against the
water. At the front a large pavilion surrounded by delicate white
pillars jutted out into the lake. Its entrance was guarded by a row of
life-sized stone elephants rising out of the water, their trunks raised
above their heads in silent salute. As their boat neared the arched
entryway of the pavilion, Hawksworth saw a veiled woman surrounded by
eunuchs standing on the marble-paved dock to greet them.
"It's Her Highness, Princess Mumtaz." Shirin's voice was suddenly
flooded with surprised delight. Then she turned to Hawksworth with a
laugh. "Welcome to the _zenana_, Ambassador."
"What's she doing here?" Hawksworth examined the figure, whose jewels
glistened in the afternoon sun, then warily studied the eunuchs.
"She's come to meet us." Shirin's voice was lilting in anticipation. "I
think she's bored to frustration trapped on this island prison."
As their boat touched the dock, Mumtaz moved forward and immediately
embraced Shirin. Her eyes swept Hawksworth as he bowed.
"Your Highness."
Mumtaz giggled behind her veil and turned to Shirin, speaking in
Persian. "Do we have to speak barbarous Turki because of him?"
"Just for this afternoon."
"I welcome you in the name of His Highness." Mumtaz's Turki was
accented but otherwise flawless. "He asked me to meet you and show you
the garden and the palace."
She began chattering to Shirin in a mixture of Persian and Turki as
they walked into the garden. It soon revealed itself to be a matrix of
bubbling fountains and geometrical stone walkways, beside which rows of
brightly colored flowers bloomed. Ahead of them the small three-story
palace rose skyward like a long-stemmed lotus, its top a high dome with
a sensuous curve. The ground floor was an open arcade, with light
interior columns and a row of connecting quarters off each side for
women and servants, screened behind marble grillwork.
Mumtaz directed them on through the garden and into the cool arcade of
the palace. At one side, near the back, a stone stairway spiraled
upward to the second floor. Mumtaz led the way, motioning them to
follow.
At the second floor they emerged into a small chamber strewn with
bolsters and carpets that seemed to be Jadar's reception room. Mumtaz
ignored it as she started up the next circular staircase.
The topmost room was tiny, dazzling white, completely unfurnished. The
ornate marble cupola of the dome towered some thirty feet above their
heads, and around the sides were carved niches decorated with colored
stone. Light beamed through the room from a wide doorway leading to a
balcony, which was also bare save for an ornately carved sitar leaned
against its railing.
"His Highness has taken a particular fondness for this room and refuses
to allow anything to be placed in it. He sits here for hours, and on
the balcony there, doing I don't know what." Mumtaz gestured toward the
doorway. "He wanted me to bring you here to wait for him." She sighed.
"I agree with him that this room brings a great feeling of peace. But
what good is peace that cannot last? I don't know how much longer we
can stay here." Mumtaz turned and hugged Shirin again. "I so miss Agra.
And the Jamuna. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever see it again."
Shirin stroked Mumtaz's dark hair, then said something to her in
Persian. Mumtaz smiled and turned to Hawksworth.
"Do you really love her?"
"More than anything." Hawksworth was momentarily startled by her
directness.
"Then take her with you. Away from here. Away from all the killing and
death. How much longer can any of us endure it?" Her hard eyes blinked
away a hint of a tear. "I've lived most of my life with His Highness in
tents, bearing children. I'm so weary of it all. And now I wonder if
we'll ever have a place just for ourselves."
She would have continued, but footsteps sounded on the stone stairs,
and Jadar emerged beaming from the stairwell, his turban set rakishly
on the side of his head. He seemed in buoyant spirits. "You're here!
Let me welcome you and offer you something to banish the afternoon
heat." He gave Mumtaz a quick hug. Hawksworth sensed this was not the
official Jadar. This was a prince very much at his ease. "I hope Shirin
will join me in having some _sharbat_. But for you, Captain, I've had a
surprise prepared. I think you might even like it better than your foul
brandy." He spoke quickly to a eunuch waiting at the top of the stairs,
then turned back to Hawksworth and Shirin. "Have you found the
maharana's palace to your liking?"
"His view of the lake and the mountains is the finest in India." Shirin
performed a _teslim_. "We so thank Your Highness."
Mumtaz embraced Shirin once more, said something to her in Persian,
then bowed to Jadar and disappeared down the stairwell. He watched her
tenderly until she was gone before he turned back to Hawksworth and
Shirin.
"Come outside with me." He walked past them through the marble doorway.
"Have you seen the lake yet from the balcony? This one afternoon we
will drink together and watch the sunset. Before we all leave Udaipur I
wanted you to see this place. It's become very special for me. When I
sit here in the cool afternoon, I seem to forget all the wounds I've
ever felt in battle. For a moment nothing else exists."
"I think this palace is almost finer than the one Rana Karan Singh
has." Hawksworth stroked Shirin's thigh as they followed Jadar onto the
cool balcony, impulsively wanting her in his arms. Then he cleared his
throat. "I don't remember ever seeing anything quite like it in India."
"At times you can be a perceptive man, Captain. Allah may have showed
his wisdom when he sent you here." Jadar smiled. "You know, I still
remember my first word of your arrival, and your now-famous encounter
with the Portuguese. I think that morning will someday change the
history of both our lands--the morning India and England met." He looked
pensively down into the garden below. "It all depends on what happens
next."
"What do you think will happen, Highness?" Shirin moved next to Jadar
at the edge of the balcony.
He squinted into the waning sun for a moment, then turned his eyes
away. "It's difficult to know. Probably the Imperial army will be sent
against me again, any day now."
"Will the maharana support you with his cavalry?"
Jadar fell silent, as though choosing his words carefully. Then he
shrugged away discretion. "I think he might, but I still don't know. I
hear that many of the other ranas of Rajputana have warned him not to
side with me openly. They still remember the devastation Inayat Latif
wrought here fifteen years ago, when he was sent by Arangbar to put
down their rebellion. Rajputs love to battle, but not amid their own
cities and fields. And that's easy to understand. Rana Karan Singh is
in a difficult position. He knows if I stand here and fight, the battle
could well destroy Udaipur."
"What will you do?"
"I'll probably have to move out soon, and move quickly, farther north
into the mountains or back south to Burhanpur. I can't stand and fight
again, not yet. That's one of the reasons I sent for you." He turned to
face Hawksworth. "I think it's time you left India. No one in Agra
except Nadir Sharif knows you're alive. But it's obvious you can't
return there, not under the present circumstances. It's probably best
that you return to England, at least until my fortunes are _Resolve_d.
You must not join me in any more battles. It's not your war."
Hawksworth felt a sudden chill against his skin. "There's no reason for
me to leave. And besides, I have no way to return to England now. The
Company is supposed to send a voyage this autumn, but . . ."
"There's always a way to do anything, Captain." Jadar stopped and
laughed. "Well, almost anything. Here at Udaipur you're only a few
days' ride south to our port of Cambay. Like Surat, it's still free of
Portuguese control. I may have very few friends left in Agra, but I do
have friends in Cambay. I can arrange for your passage on an Indian
trader as far as the Moluccas, where you can doubtless hail a Dutch
fleet. You can leave India secretly and safely. No one in Agra need
ever know you helped me."
"I am not sure I want to leave now." Hawksworth slipped his arm around
Shirin's waist.
Jadar looked at him and smiled. "But Shirin has to leave with you. Her
life is no safer here now than yours." He fixed them both squarely. "I
hereby command her to accompany you. You can both return to India
someday . . . if Allah is kind and I succeed. And you'll be first among
all my ambassadors, Captain, I promise you. You'll receive my first
_firman _for trade. But if I die in the days to come, your English king
will not be accused someday of aiding a renegade. I hereby order you
both to leave, tomorrow."
"I don't run from a fight. There's some sea dog left in me."
"I know you don't, Captain, and that's one of the things I like most
about you. But I'm sending you away, ordering you to go. I'll always
remember it was against your will." Jadar looked up to see a eunuch
entering with a tray of cups. "Now for your drink. I ordered my kitchen
to make _panch _for you--I understand the _topiwallahs _in Surat think
it's called 'punch.'"
"Punch? What is it?"
"An Indian delicacy. A special blend of wine, water, sugar, lemons, and
spices. Five ingredients. Actually, _panch _is just the Hindi word for
five.' Try it."
Hawksworth tasted the perfumed red mixture, slices of lemon rind
floating on its surface. It was so delicious he almost drank it off at
one gulp. Jadar watched him, smiling, then lifted a cup of _sharbat
_from the tray and gestured the eunuch toward Shirin. "I gather you
find it acceptable."
"It's perfect to watch a sunset with."
"I thought you'd like it. You know, Captain, I've rather enjoyed seeing
you grow to understand and love India. That's rare among _feringhi_.
That's why I absolutely insist your king send you back as his next
ambassador."
"Nothing would please me more."
"I think you mean it. And I want you to believe me when I tell you that
nothing would please me more. Together we'll rid India of the
Portuguese scourge forever." Jadar lifted his cap in a toast and
Hawksworth joined him.
"And here's to ridding India of one Portuguese in particular."
Jadar paused. "Who do you mean?"
"The Viceroy, Miguel Vaijantes. I don't think I ever told you he
murdered my father in Goa, many years ago."
Jadar listened in silence. "I had no idea." Then his eyes grew grim. "I
know him all too well. You may or may not be aware he was once planning
to arm Malik Ambar against me. Unfortunately there's very little I can
do about him just now. But I have a long memory too, and someday, Allah
willing, I'll put an end to his trade. Will that be justice enough for
us both?"
"I'll drink to it."
"And I'll drink with you." Jadar took a deep swallow of _sharbat_. "To
England and India. And now, for the other reason I asked you both here
today. To see what you think about something. It's curious, but living
here in this little palace, I've found myself growing obsessed by an
idea. I'd like to know if you think it's mad." He drank again, then
signaled the waiting eunuch to refill their cups. "If I become Moghul
one day, I've decided to build something very special for Mumtaz, a
work of beauty unlike anything India has ever seen. Staying here on
Jagmandir Island has given me the idea. But first come inside and let
me show you something."
Jadar rose and strolled back through the columned doorway into the
domed room. "Did you happen to notice this when you came in?" He
pointed to one of the two-foot- high niches in the curved walls.
Hawksworth realized that each niche was decorated around its top and
sides with inlays of semi-precious stones set into the marble. Each
inlay was a painting of a different flower.
"Do you see what he's done here?" Jadar motioned Hawksworth and Shirin
closer. "This is far more than merely a design. It's actually a
painting in rare, colored stone--onyx, carnelian, jasper, agate." Jadar
paused. "Think carefully. Have either of you ever seen anything like
this in Agra?"
"I've never seen anything like it before, anywhere."
"Of course you haven't. This is unique. It's truly astonishing. Here on
Jagmandir Island, with the design of this room, Rana Karan Singh has
actually invented a new style of art. It's phenomenal. Now look up."
Jadar pointed to the cupola ceiling. "Notice the sensuous curve of the
dome. Like a bud just before it bursts into flower. And at the top you
see more inlays of precious stone. I think it's the most magnificent
thing I've ever seen. Its shape and color and purity move me almost to
tears." He paused and looked at Hawksworth mischievously. "So can you
guess what I've decided to do someday?"
"Build a room like this in Agra?"
Jadar exploded with laughter. "But this room is so small! What sort of
gift would that be for Mumtaz? No, Captain, if I should eventually find
myself ruling India, I've decided to build Mumtaz an entire palace like
this, a Mahal, all of white marble and inlay. I'll surround it with a
garden larger and more beautiful than anything India has ever seen. It
will be a place of love and of mystery, with the strength of a Rajput
warrior in the harsh sunshine, the warmth of a Persian woman in the
moonlight. The outside will be covered with verses from the Quran
carved in marble, and inside the walls will be a garden of jeweled
flowers. Minarets will rise at each corner, calling all India to
prayer, and its dome will be a cupola with the subtle, sensuous curve
of a ripening bud. It will be immense, the most magnificent Mahal in
the world. And it will be my gift to her." He paused, his eyes glowing.
"Is the idea completely insane?"
"It's beautiful." Shirin was beaming.
"I think it's magnificent." Jadar seemed not to need encouragement, as
he drank again from his _sharbat_. "So now you know the other reason I
invited you here this afternoon. To tell you what you may see when you
return to Agra. I haven't decided on the exact location yet, but it
will be on the bank of the Jamuna, placed so Mumtaz can watch the sun
set over the water, just as we do here. I wanted to tell you both, for
I sense you two are among the few who could really appreciate what a
bold idea this is." Jadar looked sharply at Shirin. "Now, you must
never, never tell Mumtaz, whatever else you two Persians may chatter on
about. For now let's keep it a secret among us. But someday, someday it
will tell all the world how much I love her." He sighed. "You know, at
times I worry I'm nothing more than a romantic Persian myself, deep
inside."
He looked about the glistening walls once more, then reluctantly turned
and walked out onto the balcony again.
"The peace I feel here overwhelms me sometimes. It quiets all the
unrest in my soul. Perhaps I'm a fool to ever think of Agra. But Agra
is my destiny. The Hindus would say it's my _dharma_."
He stopped to watch as Mumtaz and her women emerged from their quarters
and gathered around the fountain in the garden below. The evening air
was flooded with the women's rose attar and musk perfume. He inhaled
deeply, then turned to Hawksworth.
"By the way, I've had a small farewell gift made for you, Captain. It's
there beside you." He pointed to the sitar by the railing. "I
understand you've started learning to play it."
Hawksworth turned, startled, and picked up the instrument. Its
workmanship was fine art, with ivory inlays along both sides of the
body and a neck carved as the head of a swan. He found himself stunned.
"I've only just begun to learn, Highness. This is much finer than I
deserve. It's worthy of an Ustad."
"Then perhaps it will inspire you to become a Master yourself someday."
He laughed. "And now I want to hear how you play it. The Hindus believe
the sitar is a window to the soul. That the sound of the first note
tells everything there is to know about a man. I want to see if you've
actually understood anything since you've been here. What raga have you
been studying?"
"Malkauns."
"An ambitious choice. I seem to remember that's a devotional raga. For
late evening. But the sun's almost down. We'll pretend it's the moon,
just rising. Let's go inside, where you can sit."
Hawksworth carried the sitar and followed numbly as Jadar led the way
back into the tiny marble room. The apprehension he had momentarily
felt on the balcony seemed to dissolve among the bouquets of precious
stones in the inlaid walls. He slipped off his shoes and seated himself
in the middle of the room. Then he quickly tested the tuning on the
strings, both the upper and the lower. He could already tell the sound
it produced was magnificent, with the resonance of an organ. Jadar and
Shirin seated themselves opposite, speaking Persian in low voices as
they watched him cradle the round body of the sitar in the curved
instep of his left foot. Then they both fell expectantly silent.
He knew what they were waiting to hear. For the raga Malkauns, a master
would sound the first note powerfully, yet with a sense of great
subtlety--slipping his finger quickly down the string and into the note
just as it was struck, then instantly pulling the string across the
fret, almost in the same motion, again raising the pitch and giving the
feeling the note had merely been tasted, dipped down into and out again
as it quavered into existence. But it was much more than mere
technique. That was the easiest part. It was a sense. A feeling. It
came not from the hand, but from the heart. The note must be felt, not
merely sounded. When done with lightness, life seemed to be created, a
_prahna _in the music that the player and listener shared as one. But
if the player's heart was false, regardless of how skilled he might be,
then his music was hollow and dead.
He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, then slipped the wire
plectrum over his finger and gently stroked the lower sympathetic
strings once, twice, to establish the mood. The cool air was crisp and
flower-scented, and the sound rose gently upward toward the marble
cupola above them. As he listened he found himself looking at Shirin
and Jadar, their dark eyes, delicate faces. Then his eyes moved beyond
them, to the garden of inlaid stones in the marble walls. And for a
moment he felt something he had never felt before. This was the India
he had, until that moment, only been in. But here, now, he was finally
part of it. He took another deep breath and struck.
The first note was perfect, encompassing. He felt it. He knew it. He
sensed his hand merge with the music, the music with his own life.
Shirin's eyes seemed to melt, and Jadar immediately swung his head from
side to side in approval. Then he began to alap, the virtuoso first
section of the raga, meant to be played solo and without drum
accompaniment. He felt the music slowly growing around him as he found
and explored note after note of the raga's structure. He found himself
wanting to taste and feel each note to its essence, reluctant to move
on to the next. But each time he was beckoned forward, until at last
nothing but the music mattered. He played on and on, the intensity of
the alap growing organically, almost of its own self, until it burst to
completion, like a flower that had gloriously escaped the entrapment of
its bud.
When the final note died into silence, Shirin slowly rose and slipped
her arms around his neck. Jadar sat motionless for a moment longer,
then reached out and put his hand on the strings of the sitar.
"You have earned it, Captain. I've heard what I'd hoped to hear. Your
music tells me all I want to know about you." He rose and led them back
out onto the balcony. "I know now you can understand why I also want to
create something of beauty someday. A Mahal that will last as long as
this music. If we cannot taste love and beauty, our hearts are dead."
He smiled at Hawksworth. "There is love in your music, Captain. Your
heart is as it should be. And in the end, nothing else really matters.
Nothing else."
He turned and stared pensively into the twilight. "My Mahal will have
it too. Because it is in my own heart."
Jadar stopped abruptly and gazed toward the darkening shore. Through
the dimming light a boat could be seen approaching, rowed furiously by
lines of red-cloaked oarsmen. Sitting in the center on a gilded
platform was Maharana Karan Singh, wearing full battle dress. His
powerful bow hung loosely from his leather quiver and his rhino-hide
shield rested at his side. Jadar studied the boat for a moment and
concern gathered in his eyes.
"He would never come here unannounced. Merciful
Allah, has the Imperial army moved against us already? How can it be so
soon? My preparations have scarcely begun."
Jadar watched as the maharana leaped from the boat almost before it
touched the marble dock. The women around Mumtaz fled the courtyard,
and now the eunuchs pressed forward to bow and welcome him. He brushed
them aside as he moved quickly through the garden and into the lower
arcade of the palace. Jadar stood listening expectantly to the quick
pad of his footsteps on the stone stairs, then walked inside to greet
him.
"Nimaste, my friend. You've already missed the best part of the sunset,
but I'll have more _sharbat _sent."
The maharana glanced in surprise at Hawksworth and Shirin for a second,
then turned and bowed quickly to Jadar.
"The news is very bad, Highness."
"Then we'll sweeten it with _sharbat_."
"There is no time, Highness."
"There's always time for _sharbat_. This has been a special afternoon
for me."
"Highness, I came to tell you Arangbar is dead. The Moghul of India
joined the immortals two days ago."
Jadar examined him a moment almost as though not comprehending. Then he
turned and stared out through the balcony doorway, past Hawksworth and
Shirin. "I would not have wished it. I sincerely would not have wished
it." He turned back to Karan Singh. "How did he die? Did Janahara
murder my father, as she's killed so many others?"
"No, Highness. It almost seems as though he deemed it his time to die.
Two weeks ago he was hunting and saw a beater stumble and fall over a
ledge, killing himself. His Majesty grew despondent, saying he had
caused the man's death. Next he began to declare it an omen of his own
death. He refused food and drink. Finally even the physicians
despaired. He died in his bed. Word was given out that he was still
hunting, so the news was carefully kept from all of Agra until the very
end."
"How did you learn?"
"Nadir Sharif sent runners. He dared not send a pigeon."
Jadar walked out onto the balcony and peered down into the darkened
garden. After a long moment he spoke. "Allah. Then it's finished." He
turned back to the Rajput. "Has Janahara declared Allaudin Moghul yet?"
"She has announced she will do so, Highness." Karan Singh moved out
onto the balcony next to Jadar, hesitant to interrupt his thoughts. The
cries of water birds flooded the evening air around them. Jadar studied
the garden again, as though lost in some distant reverie. When he spoke
his voice seemed to emanate from a bottomless void.
"Allaudin will be in the Red Fort. It can never be taken, not even with
a hundred thousand Rajputs. He will never come to face me. He will
never need to." He turned slowly to Karan Singh. "I've lost it all, my
friend. And I've brought ignominy to your lands by my presence as your
guest. For that I am truly sorry."
Karan Singh stared at Jadar. "But Highness, Allaudin may not yet be in
Agra. You know he wanted Queen Janahara to appoint him to command the
army sent against you. Naturally she refused and instead convinced
Arangbar to appoint him commander of the forces to be sent against the
Persian Safavis threatening the northwest fortress of Qandahar. It was
obvious to everyone except Allaudin that she meant it to be merely a
ceremonial appointment, an excuse to elevate his _mansab _rank to equal
yours. She had carefully arranged to have him detained in Agra. But he
decided on his own that he would actually go north, to prove himself a
commander. Just before the hunting accident, he persuaded Arangbar to
allow him to march. Arangbar was apparently drunk on wine and approved
the order before Janahara discovered it. Allaudin departed Agra a week
ago with twenty thousand men and a huge train of courtiers. Because of
their numbers, it's thought he has traveled very slowly. But Nadir
Sharif said as of the day before yesterday he still had not returned to
Agra. No one knows for sure how near he may actually be."
"And where are Inayat Latif and the Imperial army?" Jadar's voice
quickened.
"Of that we're not yet certain, Highness. They may be in
Agra by now, holding the Red Fort for Allaudin, but we have no way to
know."
Jadar turned and seized his arm. "Then I will ride. Tonight. Have you
told my men?"
"Two thousand of my men are now in their saddles waiting, Highness. By
sunup another twenty thousand will be ready to ride."
Jadar stared at him for a moment, then reached out and touched the
turban the Rajput was wearing. Hawksworth realized it was Jadar's gift.
"Then give me three of your best horses. Tonight. I will rotate as I
ride." Jadar turned and ordered a waiting eunuch to bring his riding
cloak, his sword, and his katar.
"I will be riding with you too, Highness." Karan Singh stepped forward.
This time Jadar embraced Karan Singh for a long moment. Then he pulled
back. "No. I will not allow it. If I am too late--and the odds are
strong against me--no one who rides with me will leave Agra alive. No,
my friend, this I forbid." Jadar silenced Karan Singh's gesture of
protest. "Your offer is enough. I want my good friends alive."
Jadar started for the stairs, then paused and turned back to look one
last time at Hawksworth and Shirin.
"So our farewell was more timely than we knew. I regret we did not have
longer." He paused to take his riding cloak from the eunuch. Then he
reached for Hawksworth's hand. "Remember me, my friend. And remember
the Mahal. I've told no one else. If I'm still alive when you come
again to Agra, I'll take you there. If I'm dead, remember what I
dreamed."
He turned and disappeared down the stairwell.
A tear stained Shirin's cheek as she watched him move across the
courtyard below. When he reached Mumtaz, anxiously waiting by the dock,
he paused and said something to her, then embraced her closely. As he
pulled away, she reached out to stop him. But he was already joining
the maharana in the boat. In moments they were swallowed in the dusk.
"None of us will ever see him again. You know it's true." Shirin's
voice was strangely quiet. "What does it matter where Allaudin is?
Prince Jadar can never challenge the troops Janahara will have holding
the Red Fort. Not with two thousand Rajputs, not with two hundred
thousand Rajputs. It's impregnable. He'll never see the inside of the
Red Fort again." She moved next to him and rested her head against his
chest. "Will you help me remember him from tonight. And the Mahal he
will never live to build?"
"I'll remember it all." He encircled her in his arms, wanting her
warmth, and together they watched the last shafts of sun die in the
dark waters below.
* * *
LONDON
Sir Randolph Spencer studied the leatherbound packet for a long
moment, turning it apprehensively in his hand. Then he meticulously
untied the wrapping and smoothed the weathered parchment against the
top of his desk. Around the timbered room the Company's secretaries
waited nervously, in prim wigs and doublets, watching as he quickly
scanned the contents. Then he looked up, beamed, and with a loud voice
began to read.
JAVA, Port of Bantam the 3rd of May,
George Elkington, Chief Merchant,
to the Right Honorable Sir Randolph Spencer, Director of the Worshipful
Company of the East India Merchants in London
Honorable Sir,
My duty premised, etc. and expecting your Worship's favorable perusing
of this letter. May it please God, the _Discovery_ will be fully laded
within the month and ready to sail. In the meanwhile I forward this
letter by Capt. Otterinck of the Spiegel, bound this day for Amsterdam,
to advise you of certain New Conditions affecting the Company's trade.
I have inform'd you by earlier letter of our Entertainment provided the
Portugals in the Surat Bay, with the two of their vessels set to fire,
by which they were all consumed and between four and five hundred men
slain, burnt, and drowned, and of ours (God be praised) only two and
some few hurt, with all Commodity safe. I have reported also the loss
of the _Resolve_ at Surat by lamentable Circumstance. Yet I maintain
great Hope that we are like to discover profitable Trade with the
Country of India.
I write now to advise you the Hollanders have late brought News of a
new King of that Country. Reports have reached the Moluccas that the
Moghul Arangbar died suddenly some two months past, to be succeeded by
one of his Sons, whose Pleasure toward England is uncertain. The full
Events are not clearly known here, but this will doubtless require our
new Petition for license to trade.
As is oft the way in Heathen lands, the story of the Son's succession
is a marvelous convoluted Tale. There were said to be two Sons in
contention, belike both Knaves, and the Hollanders have deduced that
the late Arangbar's Queen, named Janahara, favor'd one Son over the
other, for reasons known best to her Self, and intrigued in his
succession. They have concluded thus because the new Moghul is said to
have promptly rewarded her with a large secluded Estate of her own
outside of Agra, with his personal Guards to protect her, something the
Dutchmen claim has never before been done for a Moorish Queen in India.
The Hollanders further deduce that this Queen effected the favored
Son's succession through her Prime Minister, a subtle Rogue called
Sharif, who, when the Moghul Arangbar died, secretly arranged the
Assassination of the other Son before he could reach Agra and make his
own claim for the Throne. This said Sharif was again appointed Prime
Minister by the new Moghul, doubtless a Reward for his cunning Service.
So it is His Majesty King James may now desire to dispatch another
Ambassador to Agra, to petition this new Moghul to grant English trade.
If a Petition is to be sent, know that before taking the Throne this
Son was called by the name Prince Jadar, though doubtless he is now to
be addressed formally as The Moghul.
I have as yet been unable to discover whether the Mission of Capt.
Hawksworth to Agra, authorized by Your Worship in your Wisdom, met
success. (Though his Mission will no longer assist the Company in any
instance, since he would not be known to this new Moghul, Jadar.)
However, the Hollanders have advised that an English seaman named
Hawksworth was taken from an Indian vessel off Malabar one month past,
in company with a Moorish woman, by a Frigate of theirs that later was
caught by a Storm off the same Malabar Coast. Her mainmast split in
that Storm, and the vessel was lost sight of soon after, leaving the
Hollanders to lament it may have sunk or gone aground on the Coast,
together with over five hundred ton of their Malabar pepper. If this
was our former Captain-General, he is either gone to God or is now
again in India (if the vessel haply made landfall and saved the
Hollanders' pepper).
In closing (for the Dutchmen advise they are preparing to hoist sail),
I am content to report that Indian commodity is readily vendable at the
port of Bantam, particularly fine calicoes and indigo, and I adjudge
the Company would be well advis'd to dispatch a new Voyage to Surat
upon receipt of this letter. The Monopoly of the Portugals holds no
more, esp. after their Humiliation in the late engagement off Surat. On
condition the Company post a Gentleman of Quality to Agra (One less
susceptable to Moorish ways than Capt. Hawksworth, and therefore, in my
Judgement, like to be better respected by the new Moghul) our
Subscribers stand to enjoy great Profit in the Company's Indies trade.
So desiring God to add a blessing to all endeavours tending to this
business of ours and of all that may succeed us to God's glory and the
Company's benefit.
Your Worship's faithful servant,
Geo. Elkington
* *
*
AFTERWORD
For those curious how much of the foregoing tale is "true," perhaps it
may be helpful to unmask the original inspiration for several of the
characters. The Great Moghul Akman, his son Arangbar, and Arangbar's
primary consort, Queen Janahara, had real-life counterparts in the
Great Moghul Akbar, his successor Jahangir, and Jahangir's resourceful
Persian queen, Nur Jahan. Nadir Sharif, for all his duplicity, had
nothing on Jahangir's devious prime minister, Asaf Khan, the brother of
Queen Nur Jahan. Similarly, Prince Jadar was no more ingenious, and no
less wronged, than Asaf Khan's son-in-law, the subsequent Moghul and
builder of the Taj Mahal, Shah Jahan. Prince Jadar's strategies and
intrigues, first with and then against Queen Janahara, resemble in many
ways those of Shah Jahan as he struggled to thwart the ambitions of Nur
Jahan. The Shahbandar and the opium-sotted governor of Surat also had
counterparts in real individuals, as did Jadar's beloved Mumtaz, his
younger brother Prince Allaudin, Princess Layla, Malik Ambar, and
Inayat Latif. The Sufi mystic Samad was re-created from the real-life
poet Sarmad, who was admired by Shah Jahan and who was executed by a
later Moghul for precisely the reasons given in the story. Of the
Portuguese, Father Alvarez Sarmento was drawn in some part from the
learned Father Jerome Xavier. It should be noted that the unofficial
actions of the early Jesuits in India are remembered today primarily
through the perceptions of English travelers, all of whom were all
staunchly anti-Catholic. The role of Portuguese Jesuits in the
preceding story was faithful in spirit to the English reports, although
today these may seem mildly paranoid in their fear and suspicion.
Of the English characters, only Huyghen and Roger Symmes are beholden
to single, recognizable individuals: being Jan van Linschoten and Ralph
Fitch, respectively. Brian Hawksworth is largely a fictional composite,
whose experiences recall in part those of William Hawkins (in India
from 1608 to 1613) and in part those of other seventeenth-century
European adventurers. His defeat of the four Portuguese galleons was
only a slight dramatization of historic victories by severely
outnumbered English frigates off Surat in 1612 and 1614 commanded by
English captains Thomas Best and Nicholas Downton, both sailing for the
early East India Company. Hawksworth's mercurial relationship with the
Moghul and his experiences at the Moghul's court were re-created in
part from the letters and diaries of William Hawkins and those of his
successor, Sir Thomas Roe. As did Brian Hawksworth, William Hawkins
adopted the Indian style of life in dress and diet, much to the
astonishment of his European contemporaries. Brian Hawksworth's love
affair with Shirin was suggested by William Hawkins' marriage to an
Indian women of noble descent, possibly a member of the Moghul's court,
on the encouragement of Jahangir, who suspected the Jesuits of
attempting to poison him and wanted his food monitored. Hawkins' wife
later journeyed to London, where she caused the East India Company
considerable disruption over their responsibilities toward her, and
eventually she returned to India.
Although most of the early Englishmen in India resembled our George
Elkington far more than they did Brian Hawksworth, there was one early
traveler, Thomas Coryat, whose cultural and human sensibilities would
not have clashed greatly with those of Brian Hawksworth at the end of
his story.
The sudden appearance of the bubonic plague in India was taken from the
court history of the Moghul Jahangir. Similarly, the capture of the
Moghul's trading vessel by the Portuguese, intended to intimidate him
and forestall an English trade agreement, and his retaliatory closure
of Jesuit missions happened essentially as described. The Jesuits were
allowed to reopen their missions a few years later, but the damage was
done. There seems evidence that the Portuguese did conspire to assist
the forces opposing the succession of Shah Jahan, whom they justifiably
feared. The rebellion of Shah Jahan extended over several years, and
did include at one point a stay on the Udaipur island of Jagmandir,
where some historians now believe he first saw inlay work of the type
that later became a distinguishing feature of his crowning creation,
the Taj Mahal.
For those who may wish to gain more familiarity with Moghul India,
various sources can be recommended. Lively historical works on the
Moghul period include Waldemar Hansen's classic panorama The Peacock
Throne and the even more recent Cities of Mughul India by Gavin Hambly,
to mention two of my favorites. For those still more curious, and
adventurous, there are the original writings from the seventeenth
century, which will require more digging but are decidedly worth the
effort. Readers with access to a major library may be able to find
reprinted editions of the diaries of several seventeenth-century
English and European travelers in India. These are the works, with
their trenchant firsthand accounts, that all students of the era find
indispensable. Perhaps the most easily obtainable is a collection
entitled Early Travels in India, William Foster, ed., which contains
edited versions of the diaries of William Hawkins and several others.
Following this, the most thorough account of England's early diplomacy
in India is contained in the diary entitled The Embassy of Sir Thomas
Roe (1615-1619), written by England's first real ambassador to India.
Many subsequent diaries and letters of seventeenth-century European
travelers have been reprinted by the Hakluyt Society, whose
publications comprise a virtual bibliography of the era.
The most relevant Indian writings, also obtainable in English
translation from a fine library, are the memoirs of the Great Moghul
Jahangir, entitled the Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri, and an encyclopedic
description of court life in late sixteenth-century India entitled the
Ain-i-Akbari, set down by Akbar's chief adviser and close friend, Abul
Fazl.
In fashioning a story such as this, a writer must necessarily be
indebted far beyond his ability to acknowledge adequately. The scholar
who provided the greatest assistance was Professor John Richards of the
Duke University Department of History, a widely respected authority on
Moghul (he might prefer it be spelled Mughal) India, who graciously
consented to review the manuscript in draft and offered many
corrections of fact and interpretation. He is, of course, in no way
accountable for any liberties that may have remained. Thanks are
similarly due Professor Gerald Berreman of the University of California
at Berkeley, a knowledgeable authority on Indian caste practices, who
agreed to review the relevant portions of the manuscript. I am also
indebted to Waldemar Hansen, who generously provided me with the
voluminous notes accumulated for his own history, The Peacock Throne.
Historians in India who gave warmly of their time and advice include
Dr. Romila Thapar, Professor P. M. Joshi, and Father John Correia-
Alfonso, the preeminent Jesuit authority on the early Moghul era and a
scholar whose characteristic integrity and generosity roundly revise
the period depiction of his order in the story.
Thanks also are due Mrs. Devila Mitra, Director-General of the
Archaeological Survey of India, for special permission to study the
now-restricted _zenana _quarters beneath the Red Fort in Agra; to Nawab
Mir Sultan Alam Khan of Surat, for assistance in locating obscure
historical sites in that city; to Indrani Rehman, the grande dame of
Indian classical dance, for information on the now-abolished _devadasi
_caste; to Ustad Vilayat Khan, one of Indian's great sitar masters, for
discussions concerning his art; and to my many Indian friends in New
York, New Delhi, and Bombay.
I am also obliged to Miss Betty Tyres of the Indian Department of the
Victoria and Albert Museum in London, who kindly provided access to the
museum's extensive archives of Indian miniature paintings, and to the
National Maritime Museum in Greenwich for information on early English
sailing vessels.
Finally, I am most indebted to a number of tireless readers who
reviewed the manuscript in its various drafts and supplied many
insightful suggestions: including my editor, Lisa Drew, my agent,
Virginia Barber, and my patient friends Joyce Hawley, Susan Fainstein,
Norman Fainstein, Ronald Miller, and Gary Prideaux. Most of all I thank
Julie Hoover, for many years of assistance, encouragement, and
enthusiasm.
GLOSSARY
affion--opium
aga--concentrated rose oil
akas-diya--central camp light
alap--opening section of a raga
ankus--hook used for guiding an elephant
arak--Indian liquor
areca--betel nut used in making pan
art ha--practical, worldly "duty" in Hinduism
Asvina--Lunar month of September-October
azan--Muslim call to prayer
bhang--drink made from hemp (marijuana)
biryani--rice cooked with meat and spices
bols--specific hand strokes on the Indian drum
cartaz--Portuguese trading license
charts--cattle sheds
chapattis--unleavened fried wheat cakes chapp--seal or stamp
charkhi--fireworks used to discipline elephants in combat chaturanga--
chess
chaudol--traveling conveyance similar to palanquin chaugan--Indian "polo"
chauki--weekly guard duty at the Red Fort chaupar--Indian dice game
chelas--mercenary troops beholden to single commander
chillum--clay tobacco bowl on a hookah
chitah--Indian leopard
dai--midwife nurse
dal--lentils
darshan--ceremonial dawn appearance of Moghul devadasi--temple dancer, a
special caste
dey--Turkish ruler
dharma--purpose or duty in life of Hindus
dhoti--loincloth
diwali--Indian New Year
Diwan-i-Am--Hall of Public Audience
Diwan-i-Khas--Hall of Private Audience
durbar--public audience
feringhi--foreigner
fil-kash--elephant-drawn cannon
firman--royal decree
frigalla--Portuguese frigate
gau-kash--ox-drawn cannon
ghee--clarified butter
ghola--blend of opium and spice
gopi--milkmaid
gulal bar--royal compound in camp
gur--unrefined cane sugar
guru--teacher
gurz--three-headed club
hal--goalposts for chaugan
harkara--confidential court reporters
hookah--water pipe for smoking tobacco
howdah--seat carried on back of elephant
jagir--taxable lands granted to a nobleman
kama--love, sensual pleasure
karwa--Indian seaman
katar--knife designed for thrusting
khabardar--"take heed"
khaftan--quilted vest worn under armor
kos--approximately two miles
kamar-band--ceremonial waist sash
lakh--a hundred thousand
lapsi--preparation of gur, ghee, and wheat
lila--play or sport
lor langar--chain attached to elephant's leg
lungi--long waist wrap worn by men
mahal--palace
mahout--elephant driver
maidan--public square
mansab--rank given a nobleman
mansabdar--nobleman granted estates to tax
mardum-kash--small cannon
masala--blend of spices, "curry powder"
mihaffa--wooden turret suspended between two animals
mina bazaar--mock bazaar held on Persian New Year
mirdanga--South Indian drum
mohur--gold coin
mudra--hand signs in the Indian classical dance
musallim--navigator on Indian ship
mutasaddi--chief port official
nakuda--owner-captain of Indian trading vessel
naqqara-khana--entry to royal compound
nashudani--"good-for-nothing"
nautch--suggestive dance
nezah--lance
nilgai--Indian deer
nim--plant whose root is used for cleaning teeth
nimaste--Hindi greeting, "Hello"
pahar--three hours
pakhar--steel plate elephant armor
palas--wood used for chaugan stick
pan--betel leaf rolled around betel nut and spices and
chewed panch--wine punch pandit--Hindu scholar pice--Indian "penny"
postibangh--mixture of opium and hemp extract
prahna--spirit, life force
Puranas--Hindu scriptures
qamargha--hunt using beaters to assemble game
qarawals--beaters for hunt
qazi--judge
qur--hunting enclosure containing game rasa--aesthetic mood
rasida--"arrived"; a piece that reaches center in chaupar
board game sachaq--marriage present sandali--type of eunuch sarachah--
royal platform
sarangi--Indian musical instrument, resembling violin
sari--woman's wrap
sati--immolation of Hindu wife with body of her husband sehra--
bridegroom's crown sharbat--lemon and sugar drink shikar--the hunt
sitkrita--intake of breath signifying female orgasm
strappado--Portuguese torture device
sum--climax of rhythmic cycle in Indian music
sutra--Hindu scripture
suwar--"horse rank" granted noblemen
swanih-nigar--special spy
tari--species of palm
tavaif-- Muslim courtesan
teslim--prostrate bow to Moghul
tithi--day in the lunar calendar
todah--mound of earth for bow and arrow target practice
topiwallah--"man who wears a hat," i.e., a foreigner
tundhi--drink made from seeds and juices
vama--Aryan scriptures
wakianavis--public court reporters
wallah--man
wazir--counselor
yogi-- Hindu contemplative
zat--personal rank given a nobleman
zenana--harem
zihgir--thumb ring for shooting bow
BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER
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