The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nadir Sharif leaned uneasily against the rooftop railing of his sprawling riverside palace, above the second-floor zenana, and absently watched his Kabuli pigeons wing past the curve of the Jamuna River, headed toward the Red Fort. They swept over the heavy battlements at the river gate and then veered precisely upward, along the sheer eastern wall of the fort, until they reached the gold minaret atop the Jasmine Tower, the private quarters of Queen Janahara. They circled her tower once, then coalesced into a plumed spear driving directly upward toward the dawn-tinged cloud bank that hovered over Agra from the east.

  Imported Kabuli pigeons, with their flawless white eyes and blue-tipped wings, were Nadir Sharifs secret joy. Unlike the inferior local breeds of the other devoted pigeon-fliers along the west bank of the Jamuna, Agra's palace-lined showplace, his Kabulis did not flit aimlessly from rooftop to rooftop on their daily morning flight. After he opened the shutters on their rooftop grillwork cage, they would trace a single circle of his palace, next wing past the Red Fort in a salute to the queen, then simply disappear into the infinite for fully half a day, returning as regally as they had first taken wing.

  Nadir Sharif was the prime minister of the Moghul empire, the brother of Queen Janahara, and the father of Prince Jadar's favorite wife, Mumtaz. Even in the first light of dawn there was no mistaking he was Persian and proud. The early sun glanced off his finely woven gauze cape and quickened a warm glow in the gold thread laced through his yellow cloak and his pastel morning turban. His quick eyes, plump face, and graying moustache testified to his almost sixty years of life, thirty spent at the Moghul court as close adviser to Arangbar and, before that, to Arangbar's father, the great empire-builder Akman. In power and authority he was exceeded only by the Moghul himself.

  Nadir Sharifs palace was deliberately situated next to the Red Fort, just around the broad curve of the Jamuna. The Red Fort, home of the Moghul, was a vast, rambling fortress whose river side towered over a hundred feet above the western curve of the Jamuna. From Nadir Sharifs rooftop the view of the river side of the fort and Arangbar's darshan window was unobstructed.

  Darshan was the dawn appearance Arangbar made daily at a special balcony in the east wall of the Red Fort, next to the river gate. It was strict custom that the chief officials of Arangbar's court also appear daily, on a high platform just beneath the darshan balcony, where along with the Moghul they greeted the well-wishers who streamed in through the river gate and provided visual confirmation that India's rule was intact.

  The square below the balcony—a grassy expanse between the side of the fort and the river wall, where Arangbar held noontime elephant fights and, on Tuesdays, executions by specially trained elephants—had already filled almost to capacity. Agra's most prominent noblemen were there, as prudence required, and today there also were clusters of important visitors. Several Rajput chieftains from the northwest, astride prancing Arabian horses, passed regally through the river gate and assumed prominent positions. Then a path was cleared for a large embassy of Safavid Persian diplomats, each of whose palanquins was borne by four slaves in gleaming velvet liveries; next several desert Uzbek khans in leather headdress rode into the square; and finally three Portuguese Jesuits in black cassocks trooped through the river gate and moved imperiously to the front of the crowd.

  Nadir Sharif watched as his pigeons were swallowed by the morning haze and then settled himself onto a canopied couch to observe darshan. The eunuchs of the zenana had whispered that this morning would be different, that there would be a precedent-shattering occurrence. For once a zenana rumor seemed all too plausible, and late the previous evening he had sent a dispatch through a qazi, a high judge, pleading illness and excusing himself from darshan. And now he had stationed himself to watch. How would the court officials react? Had they too heard the rumors? And what of those who had gathered below to salute Arangbar with the traditional teslim.

  Most importantly, what of Nadir Sharif? This day could well be a turning point in the course of India's history . . . and in the three decades of his preeminence at court. If the rumors were true.

  Nadir Sharif was easily the most accomplished courtier in India, a skill that had earned him the most splendid palace in Agra after the Moghul himself. His position brought with it not merely a palace, but also the mansab rank and jagir wealth required to maintain it. Only enormous wealth could sustain the hungry host of slaves, eunuchs, concubines, musicians, dancers, and wives who thronged his Agra palace.

  Success for Nadir Sharif had always seemed so effortless, so inevitable, he often marveled that so few others had ever grasped the elementary secret. His simple formula for longevity, in a court where favorites daily rose and fell, was first to establish with certainty which side of a difference would inevitably triumph, and then to unveil his own supporting views.

  He had made a lifelong habit of seeing everything. And saying almost nothing. He understood well that thoughts unsaid often served better than those voiced too hastly. Whereas the way of others might be flawed by a penchant for the zenana, or jewels, or those intoxicants the Prophet ha so futilely prohibited, Nadir Sharifs sole worldly obsession was power—from which nothing, absolutely nothing, had ever turned his head. For a decade he had ruled the Moghul empire in all but name, forwarding to Arangbar only those petitions he favored, holding in advisement any he opposed, counseling the Moghul at every turn—but always through other, unsuspecting voices if the advice was anything save disguised flattery.

  His meticulous attention to affairs at court did not exclude foreign trade. For years his voice had been raised against any who counseled Arangbar in directions adverse to Portuguese interests. This attention did not pass unnoticed in Goa, and when a kingly jewel was sent to Arangbar, another of only slightly inferior dimensions always found its way into the hands of Nadir Sharif.

  The first rays of sun struck the hard ocher sandstone of the Red Fort's east wall and suddenly it glowed like an inflamed ruby, throwing its warmth across the face of the Jamuna River. Moments later the heightening sun illuminated the rooftops of Agra, a sea of red tile and thatch that spread out in a wide arc west of the fort.

  Agra, the capital of Moghul India, was one of the great cities of the East. It was home to over half a million, more than lived in any capital of Europe, and some said a man on horseback could scarcely circle it in a day. Yet most of the city was far from grand. It was a jumble of two-story brick and tile merchant houses, clay-faced homes of Hindu tradesmen, and a spreading sea of mud and thatch one-room hovels that sheltered the rest.

  But along the river on either side of the Red Fort had been created a different world. There glistened the mansions of Moghul grandees like Nadir Sharif, magical and remote, behind whose walls lay spacious gardens cooled by marble fountains and gilded rooms filled with carpets from Persia, porcelains from China, imported crystal from Venice. Their zenanas thronging with exquisite, dark-eyed women, and their tapestried halls with hosts of slaves and eunuchs.

  Nadir Sharif inhaled the clean air of morning and surveyed the palaces on either side along the riverbank. They were all sumptuous, but none more than his own. A vainer man might have swelled with pride at such a moment, but Nadir Sharif knew from years of court experience that vanity always led, inevitably, to excess, and finally to debt and ruin. To keep one's place, he often told himself, one must know it. He also knew that to hold one's ground, one must know when to shift.

  His reverie was abruptly dispelled by the noise of shuffling feet, and then a hesitant voice.

  "A man is at the outer gate, Sharif Sahib, asking to see you."

  Nadir Sharif turned to see the eunuch's spotless white turban bowing toward him. He flared inwardly that his orders for absolute privacy had been ignored, and then, as always, he waited a few seconds for composure before speaking.

  "I'm too ill to receive. Have you already forgotten my orders?"

  "Forgive me, Sharif Sahib." The eunuch bowed ever lower and raised his clasped palms
in involuntary supplica­tion. "He has demanded an audience. He claimed he has arrived last night from the Deccan. He was with the prince . . ."

  Nadir Sharifs body tensed perceptibly. "What name did he give?"

  "A Rajput name, Sharif Sahib. He said he was requested by Her Highness, the princess, to report to you immediately on arriving."

  Nadir Sharifs heart skipped a beat. Does this mean the English feringhi has arrived? Allah! On this of all days.

  "Tell him I am at home." The voice was coolly matter-of-fact.

  The eunuch bowed again and disappeared without a word. As Nadir Sharif watched his skirt vanish past the doorway tapestry, he tried to clear his mind and decide quickly what now must be done. Instinctively he turned once more to monitor the darshan balcony. Still nothing. Then he smiled fleetingly, realizing that the fate of the Englishman would depend very much on what happened at darshan this very morning.

  The visitor appeared, in freshly brushed red turban and jeweled earrings, and wordlessly strode past the eunuch at the doorway, pushing the partially opened tapestry aside as though a foe in battle. There was about the man the haughty carriage and contemptuous eyes always encountered among Rajputs in high places, and Nadir Sharif recognized him immediately. The prime minister also knew this particular Rajput had never trusted him, and never would.

  "Nimaste, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao's salaam was correct but cold. "It's always a pleasure to see you."

  "When did you arrive?"

  "Last evening."

  "Have you arranged lodgings for the English feringhi? Even before informing me you were here?"

  "He has no lodgings yet, Sharif Sahib, only rooms at a guest house. The feringhi insisted no one be informed of his arrival. He did not say why." Vasant Rao returned Nadir Sharifs expressionless stare. "The prince's orders were to honor the feringhi’s requests whenever possible."

  Nadir Sharifs face betrayed none of his anger as he turned again toward the darshan balcony. A flock of vagrant pigeons darted overhead, following the line of palaces along the river.

  "How is the child?"

  "He is well formed, Sharif Sahib. Your daughter, Her Highness, was also well when I left Burhanpur. She gave me this dispatch for you."

  Nadir Sharif accepted the bamboo tube and, controlling his expression, tossed it aside as though it were of no more consequence than a gardener's report brought by a eunuch. "I've received no pigeons from her for four weeks. Only official dispatches from Ghulam Adl's secretary in Burhan­pur, which tell nothing. Why isn't he in the field with Jadar? What is happening?"

  "I'm not with the army now, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao casually stroked his moustache. "Perhaps the prince has ordered secrecy to protect his movements toward the south."

  Nadir Sharif started to reply, but immediately thought better of it. Instead he traced his finger along the railing of the balcony in silence and seemed to listen to the distant pigeons as he rotated the answer in his mind, knowing it was a lie and quickly evaluating the possible reasons why.

  In the north, dispatching pigeons in the field might be a risk, but never in the south, where the infidel Deccanis always know the deployment of our army better than its own commanders. No. There's something planned that Jadar does not want me to know. Which can only mean His impulsive Highness, Prince Jadar has undertaken something foolish. I know him too well.

  After a moment Nadir Sharif broke the silence, without turning his face from the darshan balcony.

  "Tell me about the feringhi."

  "Do you mean what he says? Or what I think about him?"

  "Both."

  "He claims to be an ambassador for the English king, but his only credentials are a letter he brings, said to request a trading firman from His Majesty."

  "What are the intentions of this feringhi king? Trade, or eventual meddling?"

  "No one has seen the letter, Sharif Sahib, but the Englishman says his king merely asks to trade yearly at Surat."

  "Which means the English must again contest with the Portuguese. Until one of them eventually abandons our ports. They cannot both trade. The Portuguese Viceroy would never allow it."

  "What you say seems true. It's said the Christians in Europe are having a holy war. I don't understand the cause, but the English and the Portuguese seem to be historic enemies because of it. However, the Englishman claims their disputes in Europe are now over, and that the Portuguese attack on his ships was in violation of a treaty of peace recently signed. Whether this is actually true no one knows. The English ships are gone now, but if they come again, who can say what will happen."

  "Will they come again?" Nadir Sharifs eyes told nothing of his thoughts, but his voice sharpened. "Soon?"

  "The Englishman has not said. Perhaps next year. Perhaps before that." Vasant Rao caught the inflection in Nadir Sharif’s voice, and it triggered a chain of improbable possibilities.

  "Goa will never allow them open access to Surat. There must be war on our seas if the English return." Nadir Sharif paused for a moment and then continued. "Who do you think will triumph?"

  "Ask those who claim the gift of prophecy, Sharif Sahib.

  I'm only a soldier."

  "That's why I asked you."

  "I can only say that if other English are like this man, then they are a determined race. He seems to seek the new because it is there, yet perhaps not knowing what he will do with it once it is his."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The Englishman, Hawksworth. He claims to be here for his king and his king only. But I sense this is only partly true. He is a man of complex desires."

  "Then why is he here?"

  "I think he is here also for himself. He wants something."

  "Perhaps it's to make war on the Portuguese?"

  "He will not shrink from it. But I think his own coming to India is to find something. He is searching, for what I cannot say. He is a man of curious parts. He spoke once of spending time in prison. And he is devoted to playing a small stringed instrument. He understands the tongue of the Moghuls, and he questions all he sees. He is beginning to know India, because he has made it his purpose to know India. If he stays, he could become very troubling for the Portuguese."

  "And will that bring no good to affairs here?" Nadir Sharif paused. "Will it?"

  "I do not follow matters of state, Sharif Sahib."

  Nadir Sharif let the silence swell, then in a voice brittle as ice he spoke.

  "Why did the prince meet with him?"

  Vasant Rao tried without success to mask his surprise. Lord Krishna, they know everything in Agra.

  "There was a meeting." Vasant Rao hesitated, then decided to maintain discretion. "But neither spoke of it afterwards."

  Nadir Sharif studied him, pondering if it were true. Then he turned to glance at the darshan balcony as he spoke.

  "The Moghul has demanded that the English feringhi be brought to durbar immediately after he arrives."

  "Does that mean today?" Vasant Rao shifted with surprise.

  "His Majesty will hear soon enough he has arrived. There is no choice."

  "Then the feringhi must be told to prepare, Sharif Sahib. He has a chest containing gifts, and the letter."

  "I know what he has. Tell him he must bring the gifts to durbar. For his sake I hope they're not trifles. His Majesty is most anxious to see them."

  And the queen is even more anxious to see the letter, Nadir Sharif told himself. Then he smiled as he realized he would see it first.

  It will be an interesting afternoon.

  A fanfare of drums sounded faintly from the ramparts of the Red Fort, and for a moment the morning sun seemed to glow even brighter against the gleaming panels of the Jasmine Tower. Nadir Sharif turned toward the darshan balcony. From the shadow of its embroidered satin awning a figure had suddenly emerged. It was just possible to make out the man's glistening robe and his elaborate, patterned turban. Then the heavy jewels of his earrings momentarily caught the morning sunshine and sent streams of li
ght flashing outward. All the waiting crowd bowed low, each man touching the back of his right hand to the ground and then bringing the palm to his forehead as he drew erect. It was the formal teslim given the Moghul, signifying each man's readiness to give himself as an offering.

  Nadir Sharif scrutinized the scene carefully and drew an almost audible sigh of relief. Then he turned to Vasant Rao.

  "Have you ever seen the Moghul at morning darshan? He continued on distractedly, neglecting to pause for an answer. "You know, it's actually a custom began by Akman, who worshiped the sun as one of the gods. But Arangbar appears in order to maintain his own authority. If he missed darshan for a day, rumors would begin he was dead. Three days and there would be anarchy."

  Suddenly the cheers from the courtyard died abruptly. In the silence that followed, a single pigeon's cry could be heard from overhead. Nadir Sharif whirled to see a second figure now standing on the balcony beside Arangbar.

  It was a dark-haired woman. He could not tell if she wore a veil, but her tiara of jewels glistened in the early sun. The color drained from Nadir Sharif’s face as he watched.

  So the rumor was true. For the first time in history, she has appeared beside him at darshan, to be worshiped equally.

  Vasant Rao found himself staring in astonishment.

  Queen Janahara. This is truly the beginning of the end for the prince. He will never see Agra again. Unless he's at the head of an army, or in chains.

  "What does it mean?" Vasant Rao could think of nothing else to say.

  "Times and fashions change. Perhaps it's a whim of His Majesty." Nadir Sharif did not turn his gaze from the balcony. He did not want Vasant Rao to see his eyes.

  "Escort the feringhi to durbar today. He's not safe here alone."

  "As you wish, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao paused and studied the back of Nadir Sharifs turban. "Do you have a message for the prince when I return?"

  "Official channels will serve for any message I have to give the prince." The prime minister whirled with uncharacter­istic abruptness. "That will be all. You would be wise to be out of Agra when the sun rises tomorrow."

  As Vasant Rao made his way past the waiting eunuchs, Nadir Sharif turned once more to examine the darshan balcony. He watched in growing dismay as the courtiers on the platform began salaams to Queen Janahara, who now stood boldly at the forefront of the canopied marble portico.

  Then he recalled the dispatch from Mumtaz.