The Mulberry Empire

by Philip Hensher

  ‘Sir,’ Nadir said. He had no idea, it was evident, how true this was. ‘The people long for your return.’

  Akbar nodded, accepting this without argument. ‘And the Amir?’

  Nadir took a deep breath. ‘I saved the best news until the last. It took me days to find you. Everywhere I went, I showed this jewel – look,’ and he opened his fist, and within it was a blood-red stone, an imperial ruby, ‘and the people, when they saw it, they opened up and told me in which direction I must go to find you. It took me days to reach you, and what drove me onwards was the thought that I would be the one to tell you this. The Amir is alive and safe. He journeyed long and far and finally, in his wisdom, he found the English court. They say Shah Shujah begged for him to be killed, but the English would not kill him, they were merciful. He lives in India, and is afforded every comfort of a greatly honoured guest. They are merciful, the English, and they will pay for their mercy. He is wise, the Amir.’

  ‘They will pay for their mercy,’ Akbar said. ‘Yes, that is true. And they did not blind him?’

  ‘Sir, it is not their custom, to blind a defeated enemy, but to give him honour. Your father is safe.’

  Akbar accepted this. Behind them, the court had crept quietly from their houses, and had listened to what Nadir had to say. It seemed to them, observing their Prince, deep in thought, that he had accepted a duty from his father; that, knowing he was alive and waiting, Akbar now understood that it was for him to reclaim the kingdom. When that would be, no one knew; but now they knew it would happen, at a time when Akbar wished it; and the lovely earth stretched before them to the horizon, to the dawn, to the mountains breaking like waves of stone.

  3.

  Nadir stayed that night, at the expressed desire of Akbar, and in his honour, Musa, the favourite, was led forward to tell a story. The noblemen sat and listened quietly to an old story, an old story they all knew, and from time to time they nodded. There was comfort in it, a comfort they could not have explained.

  ‘Once there was a rich man in the mountains with three sons. Each of the sons had a plot of land; Aslam, and Nadir, and Khalid. Khalid was the youngest of the sons, and one day a terrible disaster came upon him. The rivers rose, and swelled, and the banks of the river broke and destroyed the lands of Khalid. The lands of his brothers, the will of God did not touch, but from that day Khalid was a poor man with two rich brothers.

  ‘Now each of these men had a child. Khalid had no luck in life but the gift of a fine handsome son, and his name was Jubbur. Nadir had a son too, whose name was Ayub, and Aslam had a daughter. Jamila was as beautiful as the sun in the sky and fair as the moon when it walks through the still night in the mountains. Jubbur and his father were poor men, and they worked the land of their rich brother, their rich uncle, Aslam. And one day Jubbur looked up from his toil, and saw his cousin Jamila as she walked to the river, and saw that she was beautiful, and he fell in love.

  ‘It was strange, but Jamila, too, saw her cousin, and she, too, fell in love, although he was a poor man and could not hope to win her. And she came to speak with him, and their love was as strong as iron. Their love was forged in the heat of the day, and by nightfall, nothing in the world could break it. Jubbur went to his father, poor Khalid, and he told him of his love for Jamila. But Khalid was sorry in his heart, for he knew that this could never be. He tried to persuade his son that it would be best to forget Jamila, but Jubbur said he could not, and in the end Khalid had no more words, and could only shed tears for the sake of poor Jubbur, his son.

  ‘Now Jamila’s father Aslam was a proud, rich man, and when Jubbur came to him and told him that he loved his daughter and he wished to marry her, Aslam fell into a rage. He dismissed Jubbur in a fury, telling him that what he wished for could never come to pass, and that Jamila was promised to another; she was promised to her cousin, the son of the other rich brother, whose name was Ayub. Jubbur went out, full of grief, and that day, he went to Jamila and told her that he would win her, if it took years, and this is what he would do for her sake. He would mount his horse, and ride to India, and there he would work and work until he too was rich. It might take years, but then he would return and claim Jamila for his bride.

  ‘Jubbur was as good as his word, and that day, without saying a word to anyone, he mounted his horse and he rode without stopping to India, far, far beyond the hills. He worked and he lived there for many years, and in the end he did what he had promised; he built up riches beyond those even of his uncles. Many years passed, but he never forgot his promise to Jamila. He lived there in solitude, with his riches, and he thought of her every day of his life. And one day he knew that the time had come, and he mounted his horse and returned to the mountains where he was born.

  ‘He rode for days and weeks. His heart rose in his breast as he saw his old home and the lands of his father, and his father’s father, and as he rode towards the side of the mountain where his family had always lived, he met with an old man, the servant of his uncle Aslam. Now the servant did not recognize Jubbur, so rich and magnificent was he, and bowed down before him. Jubbur did not enlighten him, but asked him in a kindly way whose fine lands were these. The servant replied to him, that they belonged to two brothers, to Aslam and Nadir. Jubbur pretended to think, and he asked the old man if his master Aslam did not have a daughter of famous beauty, whose name was Jamila.

  ‘Jubbur feared that in saying this, he had revealed himself, but the old man did not seem surprised that the beauty of Jamila had spread into far countries, and this is what he told the poor unfortunate Jubbur. “Yes,” he said. “My mistress is named Jamila, and, you are right, she is as beautiful as any woman now living. She is married to her cousin, Ayub. How happy they are! And blessed with three fine handsome sons. No one could be more fortunate than they, in truth.”

  ‘Jubbur heard this, and said nothing, but it was as if the old man had pierced his heart with a dagger. “And Aslam and Nadir,” he said. “Am I wrong, or do they not have a brother, Khalid?” “Yes,” the old man said. “Yes, that is true. Poor Khalid! He lost his fortune, and then the worst happened to him. His beloved son, Jubbur, left him, without a word, and in loneliness the old man died of grief. And no one knows what happened to his son, or why he left so cruelly. The world is strange, and it is not given to us to understand everything that happens in it.”

  ‘Jubbur said nothing, but he watched the old man go, and knew that everything he said was true. He looked for one last time on the lands of his ancestors, and he knew that there was nothing more for him here. So he turned his horse, and, weeping as he rode, he returned to India, riding by day and by night. No one knows what happened to him, but it is certain that he died alone, still thinking of what he had lost, and how little he had gained.’

  The story was over. It was done, and told, and its meaning hung in the air like smoke. The princes sat in silence, and presently, one by one, they looked at Akbar, and his cheeks were wet with unmeaning tears. And the next day they would move on.

  TWENTY-THREE

  1.

  WAS HE A GRIFFIN, or was he not a griffin? He certainly looked like someone who had only just stepped off the boat from England, and to talk to him, you would come to the quick conclusion that he was the most naïve of neophytes. From his own confession, he had spent no more than a week in Calcutta before setting off for Kabul, and, just as they did with every fresh-faced wide-eyed new arrival, here in the East for the first time, the old hands listened to the jokes, the observations and the complaints which they all made patiently, forcing a smile or a show of interest. Yes, it was strange that one ate so very fiery a dish as curry in a hot climate, they all agreed, as if the matter had never been discussed before. Yes, it was indeed curious how, when one stepped off a boat after months at sea, the Indian earth beneath one’s feet appeared to swell and pitch; they nodded vigorously, letting the boy believe for the moment that he had made an original or an interesting observation. There was never any need for a conversationa
l dismissal; when the next boat arrived, it would bring a new crop of naïve young men, all of whom would make exactly the same comments, and the previous arrival would listen and be struck with terrible embarrassment at his own unoriginality, too late for apology.

  This one certainly looked and sounded like a griffin – he was such a griffin, he seemed not to know the word. Everyone was talking about the evening at Macnaghten’s when his only comments were, ‘What is a shikar? What is a jezail? Was that tiffin? What is the difference between a jemaudar and a mahout?’ and finally broke into one of Frampton’s best stories, entirely innocently, with, ‘What is a griffin?’ How Frampton had blushed; no one had used the word, out of consideration, and it could only be presumed that he had overheard one of them drop it, and perhaps even with reference to him. On that basis, there was no pinker griffin yet observed. But then there was his name, which somehow seemed to qualify him as an old hand in the East. Was he a griffin, or was he not a griffin? The single fact which seemed to raise him above the usual status was his name, and the camp silently agreed that they could not quite think of Burnes’s brother in the usual condescending way. What he was, they could not quite determine, but they treated him with a wary respect

  Certainly, no new arrival had ever been given the honour of a tour of the cantonments by Macnaghten himself.

  ‘Hm – you must not think that – that this is our normal mode,’ he was saying to Charlie Burnes, pottering through an inexplicable pile of rusty buckets. ‘We hope to be in more respectable shape – altogether more reliable shape – who left this here?’

  But the soldier walking briskly past lowered his hand from its quick salute and sauntered on, not apparently realizing that Macnaghten had been addressing him.

  ‘All assembled and ordered in so very great a hurry, you know, and the many inconveniences we now labour under, it was only to be expected, became apparent after it was altogether too late to alter the arrangements. Here are the kitchens, you see, and who thought to put them in so very distant a quarter of the cantonments did not consider the consequences for our appetite – so very unhealthy to eat food gone cold, but what is to be done I cannot say.’

  ‘Could not the kitchens be moved?’ Charlie Burnes offered brightly.

  ‘It sounds so easy, but whether to move the kitchens, or our domestic quarters, and what is to be moved to make way for that, and in turn something must be moved for the sake of the second chicken … the second displacement, I mean, sir,’ Macnaghten said, kicking off a persistent domestic laying fowl, ‘displacement, displacement. A most delicate problem, and the men must suffer (while everyone seems to be in possession of their own most obvious solution) with food which reaches them at blood temperature at best, cold food, a most dissatisfactory, unsatisfactory state of … These are the armouries, and, ah, here is Sergeant, Sergeant …’

  ‘McVitie, sir,’ the Sergeant said, saluting sharply.

  ‘McVitie, of course,’ Macnaghten said with relief. ‘A fellow Scotsman, you see.’

  ‘No sir,’ McVitie said.

  ‘And these … chickens …’ Macnaghten offered feebly. ‘They are your charge?’

  ‘No sir,’ McVitie said as the birds flocked about his feet, pecking pointlessly at the dirt on his boots.

  ‘That will be all, Sergeant,’ Macnaghten said. ‘You see, we will be in much better order in six months’ time, once we have finished … I hope you are finding the East of interest?’

  ‘Very much so, sir,’ Charlie said. ‘Although I hope to have the opportunity to travel more before I must return.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so, a young man like you, a great chance. And this is the sepoys’ mess, and this their midden … A very fascinating place, Kabul, you know,’ Macnaghten said, turning away from the embarrassing sight of a native woman squatting over the midden. ‘And what is very unusual in the East, one with a healthy climate, a great relief after Bombay. When you have been here as long as I have you will very much appreciate this climate. How did you find Bombay? You were there a week, I believe?’

  ‘Calcutta. Very interesting, sir. Rather different from my expectations – so very different that now I cannot recall precisely what those expectations were …’ He laughed lightly. ‘But the society so very agreeable …’ Charlie Burnes trailed off, lost in momentary thought; perhaps, like every griffin yet born, he had met a captain’s daughter on his second day in the country and by the Thursday had been swearing everlasting loyalty to her before being whisked off to this remote and incommunicable place.

  ‘And these are, are, more chickens,’ Macnaghten said. ‘You are at Lady Sale’s tonight? I believe so?’

  ‘Is she rather a tall woman?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Not preternaturally so, but, tall … yes, I think we may agree on that description, all in all.’

  ‘A fine view of the city, sir,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Of the?’

  ‘Of the city,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Of the city,’ Macnaghten said, wonderingly. Then he looked over the canvas roof of the officers’ mess, glistening and sodden with rain. ‘Quite so, a very fine view of the city. How long do you hope to spend with us, sir?’

  2.

  The cantonments had been established for months now – nearly a year, in fact – but they had taken on the decayed, frayed air of an ancient settlement without ever starting to seem remotely permanent. The city had acquired a new suburb of tents and huts, and outside the gates of the city, the cantonments squatted. It seemed surly, temporary, and so strangely irrelevant. The British settlement produced no real change to the city. Only in the streets of the bazaar did it appear that the nature of the city had changed, as a red-faced Englishman lurched from corner to corner, half a head taller than anyone seen here before.

  In the cantonments, there was a simmering air of resentment at the discomfort and squalor they lived in. Burnes and Macnaghten and the grandest generals had commandeered houses in the city itself; not the Bala Hissar, in which Shah Shujah and his seedy entourage roamed like tatty old tigers. That had been the insistence of the pretender, and no one had known how to refuse. The present situation, in which the army managed as best it could in the hastily thrown-up huts and field latrines, seemed satisfactory to no one, but it seemed set to continue indefinitely. Once a day, Macnaghten and Burnes rode up to the Bala Hissar, and were graciously admitted to the Presence, and two hours later rode back, fuming. Shah Shujah was a fool: and the Bala Hissar was the price of his foolishness. What they could do was live with the situation as best they could, since there seemed no prospect of anything improving; and what ‘as best they could’ meant was, in their shabby temporary settlements, to put up the appearance, at least, of living like kings.

  Goodness, how they were all knighted! How the gracious honours flowed in their directions, and with what a casually lipsmacking air Sir William asked Sir Robert to pass the salt to Sir Alexander! Heavens, how they shrugged when complimented on their elevation, and, heavens, how they gloated over it and insisted on their handle in the most ordinary communication! The tale of how Sale, the day after the letter had come, had quite naturally said, ‘I must ask Lady Sale about that,’ went round the camp like a barking whippet. ‘I must ask Lady bleeding Sale!’ they all said, laughing. Sale affected to believe, and told anyone who showed any interest, that the men all called him ‘Fighting Bob’, but he was mistaken; on the whole, they called him ‘that cunt’.

  And how the entertainments had multiplied, until they overlapped and overlaid each other, and the most distinguished persons in the cantonments found themselves dashing from one hostess to another, so as not to offend or show favouritism; and how infuriating that it was driven by nothing more than Lady Sale’s unquenchable desire to write, over and over again on scraps of paper, the interesting information that ‘Lady Sale would be most delighted if Sir Alexander Burnes would do her the great kindness …’ Like besotted lovers, they could none of them stop writing the name of their beloved on paper; and
the object of their love was their own astonishing transformation.

  That night, indeed, was for Lady Sale. She was the most indefatigable of the suddenly created hostesses, and was happy to spend long afternoons bellowing in Hindustani at the hopeless cooks this place could supply with the final aim of a dinner for the great of this place. If she wanted to believe herself and her salon at the unchallenged pinnacle of Kabul society, so be it. She approached entertaining in a decidedly martial spirit; ‘Lead the charge, Bob,’ she always hooted as her guests went in, and, ‘Ladies, I sound the retreat,’ at the end of her dinners, and they all somehow managed a faint smile at this tiresome military fantasy. The means by which she outmanoeuvred the utterly depleted arsenals of her rivals would have aroused the admiration of Clausewitz; mounting engagements to which the few other hostesses of the place could not rise, emerging each night from her impregnable battlements with an air of glowing exhilaration, anticipating nothing better than the next encounter. Whether anyone wanted to challenge this asserted supremacy was a moot point, but it had to be admitted that none could. Lady Sale, tall and stiff as a grenadier, with a glint in her eye as she bore down to extract a promise from some wavering guest, would not brook a refusal. She was formidable, and exactly the sort of officer who, in the heat of battle, most risks being shot in the back by her disgruntled subordinates. But she never turned her back, and she strode the muddy ways of the cantonments like one who, unable to doubt that everyone heartily loathed her, was nevertheless assured of her absolute security.

  Elphinstone had been secured for this evening’s entertainment, and Macnaghten, and Burnes, and Frampton, and Burnes’s brother, and, of course (what went without saying), Sale. Fighting Bob quailed before his wife’s terrible elevation, and it was impossible to imagine what on earth they found to say to each other when the guests had departed and they were alone. Perhaps, Frampton was in the habit of speculating, they merely continued shouting at the baffled servants; that mode suited them so well, after all.