by Harold Lamb
“It is yours. It is my exalted privilege to be bearer of the firman of my lord the Mogul.” Alacha bowed his dark head. “Jahangir desires your presence. I would that I were in your place!”
Smilingly he watched his two visitors depart. When they had mounted and vanished through the enclosure gate the smile passed from his olive face as if by magic and he scowled, spitting upon the ground where Abdul Dost had stood. Then he called for a mounted messenger.
Kneeling upon the white cloth, he seized parchment and a feathered pen and laboriously wrote something. These he read over carefully before sealing. They were addressed to a high official of the court—to the vizier, in fact, who had sent the missive Alacha had shown to Khlit, and who was in favor with Jahangir and his queen-to-be.
As the letter of the vizier had been in Persian—a language unknown to Abdul Dost, who clung to his native tongue, and hence undecipherable by the mansabdar as the Slayer well knew— Alacha had written his reply in the flowery phrases of the Persian courtiers:
Perfection of nobility, star of grandeur, glorious son of Jamshyd, pillar of empire and monument of magnanimity: I, unworthy as the dust beneath thy horse’s hoofs, presume to address thee in the matter of the unrest amid the scorpion-nest of Badakshan.
The exalted message of thy wisdom, that “all who lift high their heads among the Afghans should have their heads stricken from their shoulders," has delighted my eyes. Yet to accomplish thy lofty aim, it has been necessary for me to pretend that thy words were otherwise—to the warrior known as the Curved Saber who now rides to Lahore with my assurance that the sun of imperial favor is inclined to shine upon him.
Since this warrior is notable in craft and feats of arms, thy wisdom will perceive that it is best to retain him at court away from these ill-omened ones of Badakshan. Gain then the ear of Jahangir, to the end that Khlit be granted some trifling favor such as a robe of honor or a horse. Nur-Jahan, the favorite, has regard for the ancient warrior.
If gifts will not nourish his restless spirit in peace, then, O vizier, chains and perchance the cells of eye-blinding Gwalior must play their part.
The missive closed with elaborate compliments and promises of extensive payment of presents of camels, cloth, weapons and women and boy servitors from Alacha to the Mogul at the coming festival.
This accomplished and the messenger dismissed, Alacha instructed certain spies among the Hazara peasants who had been won to his cause by rich bribes to keep close track of the movements of Abdul Dost. No Afghans, as Alacha well knew, would play the part of a spy or betray their leader.
From the peasants he turned with a grimace to his own officers.
“Hold a muster of my soldiery,” he commanded. “Send a party of horsemen to hunt down that mad priest, Muhammad Asad, and another to fetch me the witless minstrel Chan. Strip him of weapons and clothing and sew him into the fresh hide of a bullock where he may have his fill of blood and sing odes to his dead mistress to his heart's content.”
Abdul Dost and Khlit reined in their horses by mutual consent where the path to the Shyr neck intersected the trail along which they were riding. Here they were on a slight hillock that afforded a view over the fertile, rolling plain of Badakshan.
But the fields beside the trail, illumined by the warm sun of early Autumn, showed only trampled grain, in which a broken wooden plow lay like some forlorn gravestone in a desecrated cemetery.
On the other side of the highway a shepherd watched them listlessly, lying with his dog at the edge of a willow thicket. No sheep were visible, as Abdul Dost noticed. Below them the huts of a village clustered about a dark pool of water, and around this squatted a ring of cloaked figures.
Along a wooded ridge beyond the village trotted a body of horse, their spear-tips glittering within the thin foliage of aspens and cypress, and the glint of armor showing under rich vestments—Turkoman riders in the service of Alacha.
Abdul Dost surveyed them moodily, gazing from the almost inanimate villagers to the dark stretches of pines that reached up over his head to the edge of the timberline. He raised his eyes to serried peaks, towering high against the blue vault of the sky. The rarefied air of that altitude revealed valleys and peaks alike with startling distinctness.
Emerging from an ice-coated moraine, two eagles circled over the pine-tops on tranquil wings. Abdul Dost pointed to them.
“They are of the hills,” he muttered, “and freedom is their life. Allah the all-wise has decreed that they shall be spared the yoke of servitude.”
Long and searchingly he gazed at Khlit's rugged features.
“You and I have slept under the stars together these many nights, and we have partaken of the same salt. You have drawn your reins along the path I have followed—until now. Do you abide in Badakshan, or ride through the Khyber to the court at Lahore?”
Carefully he concealed his own deep interest in Khlit's answer. The presence of the veteran warrior in Abdul Dost's land meant much to him. He had come to rely upon the wisdom of the former Cossack. With unrest and strife in the air of the hills, he was loath to have Khlit depart.
On the other hand, with honor and ease awaiting him at the court of India, Abdul Dost would not ask Khlit to share his own unsettled fortunes further.
Torn between soldierly loyalty to the Mogul and love for his own people now suffering at the hand of Alacha, Abdul Dost had his problem to thresh out, his decision to make. And so he yearned for the companionship of the man who had been a true friend, sharer of his tent and food through many adventures, in which the skilled sword of Abdul Dost had aided Khlit as often as the old warrior's craft had served them both.
“What think you?”
Khlit leaned thoughtfully upon his saddle-peak, questioning his friend with shrewd gray eyes set in a network of wrinkles but still keen.
“The good-will of Jahangir is a jewel beyond price.”
Khlit nodded slowly, meditating aloud.
“Never have I seen this Mogul, Abdul Dost, who calls himself Lord of the World. There should be great warriors at his table, and much feasting and wise words.”
“Aye,” said Abdul Dost.
“Also gold. I have no gold. Nor a good horse, other than this steppe pony.”
“Aye.”
In spite of himself Abdul Dost's frank face clouded under Khlit's gaze. “These things, assuredly, you would have. Did you not fetch Nur-Jahan safely from the mountains of Tartary—” he waved a lean hand to the North and East where the giant peaks of the Himalayas were dimly to be discerned—“when you rode hither from the horde of the Tatar Khans?”
“She, also, will remember.”
“Aye,” replied Abdul Dhost, somewhat dryly.
“As for the Mogul, is he not of the blood of the ancient Mongol khans whose forebear was Genghis, the Great? In my veins runs the blood of Genghis. This thing I would tell him, Abdul Dost. As for a woman, her will is the wind's will.”
“And so you go to the court?” Abdul Dost checked what he would have said, and lifted hand and head. “That is well. May your shadow grow, and your years be ripe with honor.”
“My years come to an end. And honor—” Khlit smiled grimly —“is there any honor other than the friendship of true men?” He took up his reins, squaring his shoulders, and felt of saddlebags and girdle wherein were whetstone and a brace of Turkish pistols.
“Abdul Dost, give me your hand. I ride far, but with the first snowfall in the mountains I shall come back to Badakshan and seek you.”
Just a little, the Afghan shook his head, his eyes straying to the valley.
“What is written is written. This is farewell.”
Long and earnestly the two looked into each other's eyes as they clasped hands after the custom of Khlit. And thus each spoke briefly, concealing the anxiety that weighed on them.
In Khlit's mind rang the words of the blind priest, foretelling battle in the land of his friend, and in his soul was a great curiosity as to the friendship of princes, and
whether indeed the Mogul was a man of his word.
In Abdul Dost's thoughts was the certainty that he would not see Khlit again, in his heart the crying need of companionship in difficulty. But of this he would not speak, fearing to obstruct the path of Khlit's good fortune.
He watched his friend ride away along the path to the South, between rising shoulders of barren, sandstone summits. Until Khlit's sheepskin hat had vanished around a turn in the trail he remained motionless.
Then he picked up his reins and moved onward along the highway at a walk, tugging the head of his horse aside as the beast, from long habit, sought to follow Khlit's mount.
1
Jahangir, the Mogul.
IV
To the builder of empire, the opener of roads, the healer of sickness, the planner of cities—respect.
For the bearer of water, the tiller of fields, the wielder of a protecting sword—gratitude.
To the wearer of another’s sword, the crown of another’s greatness, and to him who sits in another’s throne—terror.
From father to son, the thrones of Agra, Delhi, Chitore, Kabul had passed, from Babur, the first great figure in history among the Moguls, who carved the empire of India out of chaos with his sword, to Humayon, the chivalrous, to Akbar, Jallal' u'din Akbar, who knit together the warring provinces of the empire by supreme diplomacy and humane law making, to Jahangir.
And during the reign of Jahangir the empire of the Moguls reached its zenith.
The World-Gripper inherited much of the hardiness of his forebears, and added thereto many vices of his own. Born in the shadow of a mighty throne, already acclaimed by a multitude of servants, he was not forced to undergo the healthful discipline of privation. Clever, unquestionably, supremely courteous at occasion, he was narrow of mind, hasty of temper, cruel when aroused, and always suspicious.
Of Turki-Mongol father and Hindu mother, schooled by Persian wiseacres, he revealed the traits of mixed breeding. A lover of women of many races, pampered of body and gross of appetite, the traces of degeneracy that were to mark the downfall of the Moguls already appeared in him.
Yet at that time, as it is written in the annals of his reign, when the favorable constellation of Aries was rising into the sky, the supremacy of Delhi and Agra over the world from the Indian Sea to the territory of the once-powerful Mongol khans, from Ethiopia to China, was at its height.
The brilliancy of the Mogul court was the talk of the outer world. Ambassadors came from Tibet, Khorassan, and Africa to receive magnificent presents. Portuguese priests, envoys and soldiers had established themselves at court; Hawkins was sailing thither from England, to be the forerunner of the East India Company; France, under Louis XIII, was rising to greatness in Europe; the Ming dynasty in China was at its brightest.
But the empire of the Mogul was supreme. Envoys from Fer-angistan—Europe—were regarded as visitors from inferior states. The fiery Rajputs were held in temporary check; the Maharattas, Persians and Turks acknowledged the overlordship of Agra; only the Afghans maintained pretense of liberty.
At this time the revenues of the Mogul are estimated at two hundred million rupees, and the men under arms at four hundred thousand. And these were composed largely of the pick of the warlike Rajputs, the Punjabis, Turks, and Persians with a smattering of Portuguese mercenaries—musket-men, or matchlock-men.
And in the rising tide of his power Jahangir held festival at Lahore, capital of the province of the Five Rivers, in that year. The rainy season had passed and the river had sunk to its bed, leaving a vast stretch of mud between water and the lofty buildings of the palaces.
On the high-water mark of the river bank Jahangir in his whim had ordered a gold chain to be placed. This chain ran into the main hall of his palace, where it was connected with a series of sixty golden bells.
“So that any man of the land may have justice,” Jahangir had said. “No matter who he may be, let him touch the gold chain and the bells will sound in my ear. Thus will I dispense the imperial mercy.”
Courtiers had acclaimed the words, yet guards had been placed at the river bank to protect the gold of the chain, and it came to pass in time that these guards had considered it part of their duty to keep away any who sought to meddle with the Chain of Justice, as it was called. Their officers had hinted that the peace of the mighty monarch was not lightly to be disturbed.
Thus the bells had been silent, and as Jahangir feasted on a certain night in his banquet hall their presence was all but forgotten by himself and the ameers in attendance.
Jahangir sat upon a slight dais facing the rows of nobles, Hindu and Muslim, who shared with him the dainties of northern fruits; wine—for the monarch chose to ignore the Muslim laws at nights—and meats cut skillfully from the choicer portions of game slain that day in the nearby jungle, whither the court had come to escape the heat of late Summer in the dry plain of Hindustan.
He was a stout, broad-faced man, with sharp black eyes, cleanshaven except for a dark mustache. Garbed in a comfortable silk tunic and small, pearl-sewn turban, his hands, neck and head were brilliant with jewels. Behind him, unnoticed, glimmered the gold bells in torch and candle light. Often he laughed at a compliment or jest from his ameers, for the banquet had endured many hours and heating cups of spirits had touched bearded lips as musicians made merry behind screens of latticework.
So, being in high good humor, the World-Gripper listened to a favorite vizier who whispered respectfully in his ear.
“My Padishah, light of my eyes and guider of my fortunes, a common soldier waits to attend you, sent from your zealous servant Alacha. Khlit is his name, and he is the Ferang (European) who once had the all-desirous privilege of serving Nur-Jahan, Light of the World—”
“I will receive his presents.”
The monarch's geniality was heightened by mention of the favorite whom he desired above all others to make his wife.
At this the vizier hesitated, for Khlit had brought no gifts, as was customary—in fact, had none to bring. Mentally the courtier summed up the old warrior's meager possessions and announced smilingly that Khlit's most valued treasures—a fine, curved sword, declared the courtier, and his horse—were at the disposal of the Mogul.
“My Padishah,” he purred, bowing, for Alacha had remembered him with no little gold, “your jagirdar who holds the turbulent Afghans trembling before the sound of the voice of your authority, has sent a string of fifty long-haired Bactrian camels laden with gold and silk cloth as a gift to lay before your feet. He humbly asks that some robe of honor be accorded the warrior, who is a power among the wild Mongol khans of the North. One of Alacha's spies—a priest, among the Mongols of the steppe— spoke to him before this of the power of the khan.”
Jahangir's benignity waxed amain. The camels were a welcome addition to his animals of the military train. He nodded, and the sentries at the farther end of the hall ushered in Khlit.
Courtiers and monarch alike stared at the gaunt figure of the Cossack, and many whispers went the rounds exclaiming upon the uncouthness of the newcomer's dress and the rude insolence of his bearing.
For, instead of performing the salaam as he had been instructed or even touching his hand to the floor and then to his forehead, Khlit advanced among the banquet cloths with his accustomed swaggering gait and raised his hand, bending his head slightly.
The spectators looked from him to the emperor and at the vizier curiously.
Khlit stood before the sitting monarch quite calmly, meeting his frowning stare fairly. “Padishal salametV he exclaimed in broken Turki, and the plump, bejeweled councilor frowned and grimaced behind Jahangir, at the unequaled effrontery of utterance before the emperor should be pleased to speak.
But chance worked in Khlit's favor. Jahangir had frowned, whereat the courtiers murmured and half-rose, sensing the displeasure of their lord. Yet the World-Gripper was meditating, rather pleasantly than otherwise.
“I am told,” his cultured voice observed clear
ly, “that you have been a leader of the Mongol khans who enjoy the honor of being our neighbors. Doubtless you have come to pay your respects to the Presence. It rejoices us greatly that the barbarians of the North have bent their eyes before the sun of India.”
The idea of a representative from the descendants of Genghis Khan attending upon his pleasure rather interested the man to whom power was the breath of life. Uncouth as Khlit might be, and uncertain as his mission to the court certainly was—save for the hinted message of Alacha that the vizier had not seen fit to reveal in full—it was characteristic of Jahangir that he chose instantly to assume that Khlit could be placed on par with the other outlandish envoys of Ethiopia, Abyssinia and Tibet who at present added to his pomp, eating their heads off the while.
Khlit, not understanding, looked calmly and inquiringly at the vizier, who quickly paraphrased the monarch's remarks, altering their meaning.
“Warrior, the Master of the Universe asks if you be related by blood to the Mongol khans. Alacha informs me you once held rank among them.”
“Aye,” assented Khlit readily.
The vizier salaamed.
“My Padishah,” he cried, “the warrior places himself at the call of your pleasure.”
In this fashion did a skillful diplomat cover over the perils that threatened from Khlit's introduction. Jahangir was pleased. The reminder of his own importance went to his head like wine.
“Let the graybeard keep his horse and sword,” he responded, which was well, as Khlit would never have suffered parting from his weapon. “We will add the word-defying grace of womanly beauty to the value of the slight gifts from our hand. Let Nur-Jahan herself be summoned from the imperial quarters to place at his waist a better sword. Meanwhile robe him in a cloth-of-gold khilat, as is meet for the eyes of the Splendor of the World.”
Khlit looked curiously at the resplendent garment that was drawn over his rough sheepskin coat and at the girdle of many-colored silk placed around his leather belt. He listened silently to the announcement that a satin tent had been placed at his disposal near the cantonment of the personal cavalry of the emperor, a tent with a native servant—in the pay of the vizier who was Alacha's friend. Only at mention of a blooded Arabian horse did he nod, well pleased.
