The Moghul

  *

  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 Shar
if 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 resolved."

  "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 himsel
f 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."