The Moghul

  *

  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.