The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

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 g
aze 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, Highne
ss. 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 S
urat."

  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.