The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  Hawksworth sat beside Shirin watching the oarsmen strain against the locks, their orange oars flashing against the ornately gilded boat like the immense gills of some ceremonial fish. A turbaned drummer sat at one end, sounding the beat, and the tillerman stood behind him.

  They were headed for Jagmandir Island, on the invitation of Prince Jadar, in a boat provided by Maharana Karan Singh. Three weeks of banquets, hunting, and oaths of lasting friendship seemed to have done little to resolve the question of the maharana's support for Jadar's rebellion. Time, Hawksworth told himself, is starting to work heavily against the prince. The Imperial army let us escape because they were too shattered to attack again. But we all know they're rebuilding. Jadar has to decide soon how much longer he can afford to stay here and listen to vague promises.

  Behind them the high walls and turrets of the maharana's palace towered above the cliff, reflecting gold in the late afternoon sun. As they neared the island, Hawksworth turned back to see the thick stone walls of the city following the curve of the surrounding hilltops and finally angling down to a tall watchtower at the very edge of the lake. He realized the lake itself was actually the city's fourth defense barrier.

  Ahead, the white sandstone palace on Jagmandir glis­tened against the water. At the front a large pavilion surrounded by delicate white pillars jutted out into the lake. Its entrance was guarded by a row of life-sized stone elephants rising out of the water, their trunks raised above their heads in silent salute. As their boat neared the arched entryway of the pavilion, Hawksworth saw a veiled woman surrounded by eunuchs standing on the marble-paved dock to greet them.

  "It's Her Highness, Princess Mumtaz." Shirin's voice was suddenly flooded with surprised delight. Then she turned to Hawksworth with a laugh. "Welcome to the zenana, Ambassador."

  "What's she doing here?" Hawksworth examined the figure, whose jewels glistened in the afternoon sun, then warily studied the eunuchs.

  "She's come to meet us." Shirin's voice was lilting in anticipation. "I think she's bored to frustration trapped on this island prison."

  As their boat touched the dock, Mumtaz moved forward and immediately embraced Shirin. Her eyes swept Hawks­worth as he bowed.

  "Your Highness."

  Mumtaz giggled behind her veil and turned to Shirin, speaking in Persian. "Do we have to speak barbarous Turki because of him?"

  "Just for this afternoon."

  "I welcome you in the name of His Highness." Mumtaz's Turki was accented but otherwise flawless. "He asked me to meet you and show you the garden and the palace."

  She began chattering to Shirin in a mixture of Persian and Turki as they walked into the garden. It soon revealed itself to be a matrix of bubbling fountains and geometrical stone walkways, beside which rows of brightly colored flowers bloomed. Ahead of them the small three-story palace rose skyward like a long-stemmed lotus, its top a high dome with a sensuous curve. The ground floor was an open arcade, with light interior columns and a row of connecting quarters off each side for women and servants, screened behind marble grillwork.

  Mumtaz directed them on through the garden and into the cool arcade of the palace. At one side, near the back, a stone stairway spiraled upward to the second floor. Mumtaz led the way, motioning them to follow.

  At the second floor they emerged into a small chamber strewn with bolsters and carpets that seemed to be Jadar's reception room. Mumtaz ignored it as she started up the next circular staircase.

  The topmost room was tiny, dazzling white, completely unfurnished. The ornate marble cupola of the dome towered some thirty feet above their heads, and around the sides were carved niches decorated with colored stone. Light beamed through the room from a wide doorway leading to a balcony, which was also bare save for an ornately carved sitar leaned against its railing.

  "His Highness has taken a particular fondness for this room and refuses to allow anything to be placed in it. He sits here for hours, and on the balcony there, doing I don't know what." Mumtaz gestured toward the doorway. "He wanted me to bring you here to wait for him." She sighed. "I agree with him that this room brings a great feeling of peace. But what good is peace that cannot last? I don't know how much longer we can stay here." Mumtaz turned and hugged Shirin again. "I so miss Agra. And the Jamuna. Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever see it again."

  Shirin stroked Mumtaz's dark hair, then said something to her in Persian. Mumtaz smiled and turned to Hawks­worth.

  "Do you really love her?"

  "More than anything." Hawksworth was momentarily startled by her directness.

  "Then take her with you. Away from here. Away from all the killing and death. How much longer can any of us endure it?" Her hard eyes blinked away a hint of a tear. "I've lived most of my life with His Highness in tents, bearing children. I'm so weary of it all. And now I wonder if we'll ever have a place just for ourselves."

  She would have continued, but footsteps sounded on the stone stairs, and Jadar emerged beaming from the stairwell, his turban set rakishly on the side of his head. He seemed in buoyant spirits. "You're here! Let me welcome you and offer you something to banish the afternoon heat." He gave Mumtaz a quick hug. Hawksworth sensed this was not the official Jadar. This was a prince very much at his ease. "I hope Shirin will join me in having some sharbat. But for you, Captain, I've had a surprise prepared. I think you might even like it better than your foul brandy." He spoke quickly to a eunuch waiting at the top of the stairs, then turned back to Hawksworth and Shirin. "Have you found the maharana's palace to your liking?"

  "His view of the lake and the mountains is the finest in India." Shirin performed a teslim. "We so thank Your Highness."

  Mumtaz embraced Shirin once more, said something to her in Persian, then bowed to Jadar and disappeared down the stairwell. He watched her tenderly until she was gone before he turned back to Hawksworth and Shirin.

  "Come outside with me." He walked past them through the marble doorway. "Have you seen the lake yet from the balcony? This one afternoon we will drink together and watch the sunset. Before we all leave Udaipur I wanted you to see this place. It's become very special for me. When I sit here in the cool afternoon, I seem to forget all the wounds I've ever felt in battle. For a moment nothing else exists."

  "I think this palace is almost finer than the one Rana Karan Singh has." Hawksworth stroked Shirin's thigh as they followed Jadar onto the cool balcony, impulsively wanting her in his arms. Then he cleared his throat. "I don't remember ever seeing anything quite like it in India."

  "At times you can be a perceptive man, Captain. Allah may have showed his wisdom when he sent you here." Jadar smiled. "You know, I still remember my first word of your arrival, and your now-famous encounter with the Portu­guese. I think that morning will someday change the history of both our lands—the morning India and England met." He looked pensively down into the garden below. "It all depends on what happens next."

  "What do you think will happen, Highness?" Shirin moved next to Jadar at the edge of the balcony.

  He squinted into the waning sun for a moment, then turned his eyes away. "It's difficult to know. Probably the Imperial army will be sent against me again, any day now."

  "Will the maharana support you with his cavalry?"

  Jadar fell silent, as though choosing his words carefully. Then he shrugged away discretion. "I think he might, but I still don't know. I hear that many of the other ranas of Rajputana have warned him not to side with me openly. They still remember the devastation Inayat Latif wrought here fifteen years ago, when he was sent by Arangbar to put down their rebellion. Rajputs love to battle, but not amid their own cities and fields. And that's easy to understand. Rana Karan Singh is in a difficult position. He knows if I stand here and fight, the battle could well destroy Udaipur."

  "What will you do?"

  "I'll probably have to move out soon, and move quickly, farther north into the mountains or back south to Burhanpur. I can't stand and fight again, not yet. Th
at's one of the reasons I sent for you." He turned to face Hawksworth. "I think it's time you left India. No one in Agra except Nadir Sharif knows you're alive. But it's obvious you can't return there, not under the present circumstances. It's probably best that you return to England, at least until my fortunes are resolved. You must not join me in any more battles. It's not your war."

  Hawksworth felt a sudden chill against his skin. "There's no reason for me to leave. And besides, I have no way to return to England now. The Company is supposed to send a voyage this autumn, but . . ."

  "There's always a way to do anything, Captain." Jadar stopped and laughed. "Well, almost anything. Here at Udaipur you're only a few days' ride south to our port of Cambay. Like Surat, it's still free of Portuguese control. I may have very few friends left in Agra, but I do have friends in Cambay. I can arrange for your passage on an Indian trader as far as the Moluccas, where you can doubtless hail a Dutch fleet. You can leave India secretly and safely. No one in Agra need ever know you helped me."

  "I am not sure I want to leave now." Hawksworth slipped his arm around Shirin's waist.

  Jadar looked at him and smiled. "But Shirin has to leave with you. Her life is no safer here now than yours." He fixed them both squarely. "I hereby command her to accompany you. You can both return to India someday . . . if Allah is kind and I succeed. And you'll be first among all my ambassadors, Captain, I promise you. You'll receive my first firman for trade. But if I die in the days to come, your English king will not be accused someday of aiding a renegade. I hereby order you both to leave, tomorrow."

  "I don't run from a fight. There's some sea dog left in me."

  "I know you don't, Captain, and that's one of the things I like most about you. But I'm sending you away, ordering you to go. I'll always remember it was against your will." Jadar looked up to see a eunuch entering with a tray of cups. "Now for your drink. I ordered my kitchen to make panch for you—I understand the topiwallahs in Surat think it's called 'punch.'"

  "Punch? What is it?"

  "An Indian delicacy. A special blend of wine, water, sugar, lemons, and spices. Five ingredients. Actually, panch is just the Hindi word for five. Try it."

  Hawksworth tasted the perfumed red mixture, slices of lemon rind floating on its surface. It was so delicious he almost drank it off at one gulp. Jadar watched him, smiling, then lifted a cup of sharbat from the tray and gestured the eunuch toward Shirin. "I gather you find it acceptable."

  "It's perfect to watch a sunset with."

  "I thought you'd like it. You know, Captain, I've rather enjoyed seeing you grow to understand and love India. That's rare among feringhi. That's why I absolutely insist your king send you back as his next ambassador."

  "Nothing would please me more."

  "I think you mean it. And I want you to believe me when I tell you that nothing would please me more. Together we'll rid India of the Portuguese scourge forever." Jadar lifted his cap in a toast and Hawksworth joined him.

  "And here's to ridding India of one Portuguese in particular."

  Jadar paused. "Who do you mean?"

  "The Viceroy, Miguel Vaijantes. I don't think I ever told you he murdered my father in Goa, many years ago."

  Jadar listened in silence. "I had no idea." Then his eyes grew grim. "I know him all too well. You may or may not be aware he was once planning to arm Malik Ambar against me. Unfortunately there's very little I can do about him just now. But I have a long memory too, and someday, Allah willing, I'll put an end to his trade. Will that be justice enough for us both?"

  "I'll drink to it."

  "And I'll drink with you." Jadar took a deep swallow of sharbat. "To England and India. And now, for the other reason I asked you both here today. To see what you think about something. It's curious, but living here in this little palace, I've found myself growing obsessed by an idea. I'd like to know if you think it's mad." He drank again, then signaled the waiting eunuch to refill their cups. "If I become Moghul one day, I've decided to build something very special for Mumtaz, a work of beauty unlike anything India has ever seen. Staying here on Jagmandir Island has given me the idea. But first come inside and let me show you something."

  Jadar rose and strolled back through the columned doorway into the domed room. "Did you happen to notice this when you came in?" He pointed to one of the two-foot- high niches in the curved walls. Hawksworth realized that each niche was decorated around its top and sides with inlays of semi-precious stones set into the marble. Each inlay was a painting of a different flower.

  "Do you see what he's done here?" Jadar motioned Hawksworth and Shirin closer. "This is far more than merely a design. It's actually a painting in rare, colored stone—onyx, carnelian, jasper, agate." Jadar paused. "Think carefully. Have either of you ever seen anything like this in Agra?"

  "I've never seen anything like it before, anywhere."

  "Of course you haven't. This is unique. It's truly astonishing. Here on Jagmandir Island, with the design of this room, Rana Karan Singh has actually invented a new style of art. It's phenomenal. Now look up." Jadar pointed to the cupola ceiling. "Notice the sensuous curve of the dome. Like a bud just before it bursts into flower. And at the top you see more inlays of precious stone. I think it's the most magnificent thing I've ever seen. Its shape and color and purity move me almost to tears." He paused and looked at Hawksworth mischievously. "So can you guess what I've decided to do someday?"

  "Build a room like this in Agra?"

  Jadar exploded with laughter. "But this room is so small! What sort of gift would that be for Mumtaz? No, Captain, if I should eventually find myself ruling India, I've decided to build Mumtaz an entire palace like this, a Mahal, all of white marble and inlay. I'll surround it with a garden larger and more beautiful than anything India has ever seen. It will be a place of love and of mystery, with the strength of a Rajput warrior in the harsh sunshine, the warmth of a Persian woman in the moonlight. The outside will be covered with verses from the Quran carved in marble, and inside the walls will be a garden of jeweled flowers. Minarets will rise at each corner, calling all India to prayer, and its dome will be a cupola with the subtle, sensuous curve of a ripening bud. It will be immense, the most magnificent Mahal in the world. And it will be my gift to her." He paused, his eyes glowing. "Is the idea completely insane?"

  "It's beautiful." Shirin was beaming.

  "I think it's magnificent." Jadar seemed not to need encouragement, as he drank again from his sharbat. "So now you know the other reason I invited you here this afternoon. To tell you what you may see when you return to Agra. I haven't decided on the exact location yet, but it will be on the bank of the Jamuna, placed so Mumtaz can watch the sun set over the water, just as we do here. I wanted to tell you both, for I sense you two are among the few who could really appreciate what a bold idea this is." Jadar looked sharply at Shirin. "Now, you must never, never tell Mumtaz, whatever else you two Persians may chatter on about. For now let's keep it a secret among us. But someday, someday it will tell all the world how much I love her." He sighed. "You know, at times I worry I'm nothing more than a romantic Persian myself, deep inside."

  He looked about the glistening walls once more, then reluctantly turned and walked out onto the balcony again.

  "The peace I feel here overwhelms me sometimes. It quiets all the unrest in my soul. Perhaps I'm a fool to ever think of Agra. But Agra is my destiny. The Hindus would say it's my dharma."

  He stopped to watch as Mumtaz and her women emerged from their quarters and gathered around the fountain in the garden below. The evening air was flooded with the women's rose attar and musk perfume. He inhaled deeply, then turned to Hawksworth.

  "By the way, I've had a small farewell gift made for you, Captain. It's there beside you." He pointed to the sitar by the railing. "I understand you've started learning to play it."

  Hawksworth turned, startled, and picked up the instru­ment. Its workmanship was fine art, with ivory inlays along both sides of the bod
y and a neck carved as the head of a swan. He found himself stunned. "I've only just begun to learn, Highness. This is much finer than I deserve. It's worthy of an Ustad."

  "Then perhaps it will inspire you to become a Master yourself someday." He laughed. "And now I want to hear how you play it. The Hindus believe the sitar is a window to the soul. That the sound of the first note tells everything there is to know about a man. I want to see if you've actually understood anything since you've been here. What raga have you been studying?"

  "Malkauns."

  "An ambitious choice. I seem to remember that's a devotional raga. For late evening. But the sun's almost down. We'll pretend it's the moon, just rising. Let's go inside, where you can sit."

  Hawksworth carried the sitar and followed numbly as Jadar led the way back into the tiny marble room. The apprehension he had momentarily felt on the balcony seemed to dissolve among the bouquets of precious stones in the inlaid walls. He slipped off his shoes and seated himself in the middle of the room. Then he quickly tested the tuning on the strings, both the upper and the lower. He could already tell the sound it produced was magnificent, with the resonance of an organ. Jadar and Shirin seated themselves opposite, speaking Persian in low voices as they watched him cradle the round body of the sitar in the curved instep of his left foot. Then they both fell expectantly silent.

  He knew what they were waiting to hear. For the raga Malkauns, a master would sound the first note powerfully, yet with a sense of great subtlety—slipping his finger quickly down the string and into the note just as it was struck, then instantly pulling the string across the fret, almost in the same motion, again raising the pitch and giving the feeling the note had merely been tasted, dipped down into and out again as it quavered into existence. But it was much more than mere technique. That was the easiest part. It was a sense. A feeling. It came not from the hand, but from the heart. The note must be felt, not merely sounded. When done with lightness, life seemed to be created, a prahna in the music that the player and listener shared as one. But if the player's heart was false, regardless of how skilled he might be, then his music was hollow and dead.

  He breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind, then slipped the wire plectrum over his finger and gently stroked the lower sympathetic strings once, twice, to establish the mood. The cool air was crisp and flower-scented, and the sound rose gently upward toward the marble cupola above them. As he listened he found himself looking at Shirin and Jadar, their dark eyes, delicate faces. Then his eyes moved beyond them, to the garden of inlaid stones in the marble walls. And for a moment he felt something he had never felt before. This was the India he had, until that moment, only been in. But here, now, he was finally part of it. He took another deep breath and struck.

  The first note was perfect, encompassing. He felt it. He knew it. He sensed his hand merge with the music, the music with his own life. Shirin's eyes seemed to melt, and Jadar immediately swung his head from side to side in approval. Then he began to alap, the virtuoso first section of the raga, meant to be played solo and without drum accompaniment. He felt the music slowly growing around him as he found and explored note after note of the raga's structure. He found himself wanting to taste and feel each note to its essence, reluctant to move on to the next. But each time he was beckoned forward, until at last nothing but the music mattered. He played on and on, the intensity of the alap growing organically, almost of its own self, until it burst to completion, like a flower that had gloriously escaped the entrapment of its bud.

  When the final note died into silence, Shirin slowly rose and slipped her arms around his neck. Jadar sat motionless for a moment longer, then reached out and put his hand on the strings of the sitar.

  "You have earned it, Captain. I've heard what I'd hoped to hear. Your music tells me all I want to know about you." He rose and led them back out onto the balcony. "I know now you can understand why I also want to create something of beauty someday. A Mahal that will last as long as this music. If we cannot taste love and beauty, our hearts are dead." He smiled at Hawksworth. "There is love in your music, Captain. Your heart is as it should be. And in the end, nothing else really matters. Nothing else."

  He turned and stared pensively into the twilight. "My Mahal will have it too. Because it is in my own heart."

  Jadar stopped abruptly and gazed toward the darkening shore. Through the dimming light a boat could be seen approaching, rowed furiously by lines of red-cloaked oarsmen. Sitting in the center on a gilded platform was Maharana Karan Singh, wearing full battle dress. His powerful bow hung loosely from his leather quiver and his rhino-hide shield rested at his side. Jadar studied the boat for a moment and concern gathered in his eyes.

  "He would never come here unannounced. Merciful Allah, has the Imperial army moved against us already? How can it be so soon? My preparations have scarcely begun."

  Jadar watched as the maharana leaped from the boat almost before it touched the marble dock. The women around Mumtaz fled the courtyard, and now the eunuchs pressed forward to bow and welcome him. He brushed them aside as he moved quickly through the garden and into the lower arcade of the palace. Jadar stood listening expectantly to the quick pad of his footsteps on the stone stairs, then walked inside to greet him.

  "Nimaste, my friend. You've already missed the best part of the sunset, but I'll have more sharbat sent."

  The maharana glanced in surprise at Hawksworth and Shirin for a second, then turned and bowed quickly to Jadar.

  "The news is very bad, Highness."

  "Then we'll sweeten it with sharbat."

  "There is no time, Highness."

  "There's always time for sharbat. This has been a special afternoon for me."

  "Highness, I came to tell you Arangbar is dead. The Moghul of India joined the immortals two days ago."

  Jadar examined him a moment almost as though not comprehending. Then he turned and stared out through the balcony doorway, past Hawksworth and Shirin. "I would not have wished it. I sincerely would not have wished it." He turned back to Karan Singh. "How did he die? Did Janahara murder my father, as she's killed so many others?"

  "No, Highness. It almost seems as though he deemed it his time to die. Two weeks ago he was hunting and saw a beater stumble and fall over a ledge, killing himself. His Majesty grew despondent, saying he had caused the man's death. Next he began to declare it an omen of his own death. He refused food and drink. Finally even the physicians despaired. He died in his bed. Word was given out that he was still hunting, so the news was carefully kept from all of Agra until the very end."

  "How did you learn?"

  "Nadir Sharif sent runners. He dared not send a pigeon."

  Jadar walked out onto the balcony and peered down into the darkened garden. After a long moment he spoke. "Allah. Then it's finished." He turned back to the Rajput. "Has Janahara declared Allaudin Moghul yet?"

  "She has announced she will do so, Highness." Karan Singh moved out onto the balcony next to Jadar, hesitant to interrupt his thoughts. The cries of water birds flooded the evening air around them. Jadar studied the garden again, as though lost in some distant reverie. When he spoke his voice seemed to emanate from a bottomless void.

  "Allaudin will be in the Red Fort. It can never be taken, not even with a hundred thousand Rajputs. He will never come to face me. He will never need to." He turned slowly to Karan Singh. "I've lost it all, my friend. And I've brought ignominy to your lands by my presence as your guest. For that I am truly sorry."

  Karan Singh stared at Jadar. "But Highness, Allaudin may not yet be in Agra. You know he wanted Queen Janahara to appoint him to command the army sent against you. Naturally she refused and instead convinced Arangbar to appoint him commander of the forces to be sent against the Persian Safavis threatening the northwest fortress of Qandahar. It was obvious to everyone except Allaudin that she meant it to be merely a ceremonial appointment, an excuse to elevate his mansab rank to equal yours. She had carefully arranged to have him detained in
Agra. But he decided on his own that he would actually go north, to prove himself a commander. Just before the hunting accident, he persuaded Arangbar to allow him to march. Arangbar was apparently drunk on wine and approved the order before Janahara discovered it. Allaudin departed Agra a week ago with twenty thousand men and a huge train of courtiers. Because of their numbers, it's thought he has traveled very slowly. But Nadir Sharif said as of the day before yesterday he still had not returned to Agra. No one knows for sure how near he may actually be."

  "And where are Inayat Latif and the Imperial army?" Jadar's voice quickened.

  "Of that we're not yet certain, Highness. They may be in Agra by now, holding the Red Fort for Allaudin, but we have no way to know."

  Jadar turned and seized his arm. "Then I will ride. Tonight. Have you told my men?"

  "Two thousand of my men are now in their saddles waiting, Highness. By sunup another twenty thousand will be ready to ride."

  Jadar stared at him for a moment, then reached out and touched the turban the Rajput was wearing. Hawksworth realized it was Jadar's gift.

  "Then give me three of your best horses. Tonight. I will rotate as I ride." Jadar turned and ordered a waiting eunuch to bring his riding cloak, his sword, and his katar.

  "I will be riding with you too, Highness." Karan Singh stepped forward.

  This time Jadar embraced Karan Singh for a long moment. Then he pulled back. "No. I will not allow it. If I am too late—and the odds are strong against me—no one who rides with me will leave Agra alive. No, my friend, this I forbid." Jadar silenced Karan Singh's gesture of protest. "Your offer is enough. I want my good friends alive."

  Jadar started for the stairs, then paused and turned back to look one last time at Hawksworth and Shirin.

  "So our farewell was more timely than we knew. I regret we did not have longer." He paused to take his riding cloak from the eunuch. Then he reached for Hawksworth's hand. "Remember me, my friend. And remember the Mahal. I've told no one else. If I'm still alive when you come again to Agra, I'll take you there. If I'm dead, remember what I dreamed."

  He turned and disappeared down the stairwell.

  A tear stained Shirin's cheek as she watched him move across the courtyard below. When he reached Mumtaz, anxiously waiting by the dock, he paused and said something to her, then embraced her closely. As he pulled away, she reached out to stop him. But he was already joining the maharana in the boat. In moments they were swallowed in the dusk.

  "None of us will ever see him again. You know it's true." Shirin's voice was strangely quiet. "What does it matter where Allaudin is? Prince Jadar can never challenge the troops Janahara will have holding the Red Fort. Not with two thousand Rajputs, not with two hundred thousand Rajputs. It's impregnable. He'll never see the inside of the Red Fort again." She moved next to him and rested her head against his chest. "Will you help me remember him from tonight? And the Mahal he will never live to build?"

  "I'll remember it all." He encircled her in his arms, wanting her warmth, and together they watched the last shafts of sun die in the dark waters below.