by John Masters
She said, ‘Will I ever be any good?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said patronizingly. ‘But never as good as Molly or Emily.’
‘I don’t expect to,’ she said, ‘but I’d like to be able to dance well enough so that you can dance your best with me.’
She heard water gurgling out of the water jug. Then Jason said, ‘Let’s read now.’
‘Very well.’
But someone called from outside the door, and Mansur Khan came in and said, ‘We leave tomorrow to find the treasure. These are the clothes you will wear.’ A heavy pile flopped softly to the floor.
‘These?’ Jason said. ‘These plain things? Why can’t we wear our own clothes?’
‘We will be travelling in the lands of the Grand Mogul,’ Mansur said. ‘His servants are unconscionably greedy, and often sharp-eyed.’ He went out, and Catherine smiled, in spite of herself. Mansur hated both of them, especially her, and yet was awed by the skill with which they had saved their own lives, had him fined ten thousand rupees, and made themselves councillors of the Rawan--all within the space of an hour.
When they were alone she jumped up and cried, ‘Tomorrow we really go to follow your map, wherever it may lead! We’ll see the Castle of the Holy Men, and the mountain Meru--and things neither of us has ever dreamed of!’
‘Perhaps,’ he said gently.
‘Aren’t you excited?’ she cried. ‘I am!’
She reached out tenderly, her arms trying to gather him in, but he leaned away from her. She said, ‘Please believe in the map, Jason. You want to, don’t you?’
After a time he said, ‘Yes.’
‘Then do! What harm can it do you?’
He said slowly, ‘I do believe in it.’
‘Because of me? Just to please me?’
‘No,’ he said quickly--too quickly. She sighed and turned away. He jumped up. ‘But I do, Catherine. I’ve learned how clever, how wise you are. If you believe in it, I do. But what’s the good? We’ll find the treasure and come back here, and nothing will have changed. We can’t escape.’
She thought: It’s no good going on arguing now. He doesn’t really mean what he says. Perhaps it is enough for now that he even says he believes in the map. The old doubt came back to her; she was sure the map was false.
She moved her head restlessly. She could only go on hoping that Jason would discover himself before they reached the mountain Meru and found nothing there--perhaps not even a mountain.
Jason said, as though to convince her of his faith, ‘We never found out who the galloper in the fur cap was. We were going to ask Mansur Khan, do you remember? But we never did.’ He laughed without mirth.
She said, ‘I found out. Azeema the concubine told me yesterday--the one who is being sent with us as my tirewoman. The man was a Mongol messenger. The emperors themselves came from beyond the mountains years ago. They are descended from Tamerlane, and they still have many servants from their old homeland--Samarkand! So you see, the map was right again. The picture on it is quite clear, of men in fur hats somewhere beyond the mountains, and now we have seen such a man, and Azeema has told me that he came from beyond the mountains. I wonder what mountains look like--real big ones. I saw some in Italy once, but they weren’t very big.’
Jason changed the subject. ‘Shall we read?’
She had been thinking all the while. They were off tomorrow. Something must be done. Jason had said wearily, ‘We can’t escape,’ meaning that fate seemed to have chained him to a life of power and wealth, earned by murder, and enjoyed among books and music and dancing. But they could escape--at least from Kishanpur.
Azeema was a strange, hard little thing, no more than fifteen, but old in a kind of cruel wisdom. And she was a devout Mohammedan, while the Rawan and all his court were Hindus.
And she had recently been whipped for some minor harem peccadillo.
Catherine said, ‘Oh, Jason, I promised to talk to Azeema again today. I must go. We’ll read later.’
She kissed him on the forehead and left him.
She sat on cushions in a dim comer of the harem. The air, stirred by a breeze through the arched window slits, smelled of cloying flower perfume and the sharp odour of musk. Azeema sat opposite her--a shape of rustling green and gold, over-large glowing eyes, and black round them, all smudged and wavering together--so close that she could hear the girl’s even breathing.
Catherine said, ‘Will you do it?’
Azeema said, ‘Yes. I hate this pig of a Rawan, anyway. But I am thinking how to send a message, and to where.’
Flies buzzed around them. Below, by the river, a man sang an old love song, and the oars of the fishermen clunked in the rowlocks, and rhythmically a woman slapped wet clothes against a stone.
Catherine said, ‘Is there not a Mogul post near the frontier? To collect taxes or the like?’
‘Yes,’ the girl said quickly. ‘That’s it.’ She named the place. ‘But we won’t be going along that road. We shall use a little-known road farther east.’
Catherine said, ‘But if word reaches the post in time the officer can send to intercept us.’
Azeema said, ‘But how can word reach him? Don’t think I am afraid, sister, but I don’t know--I cannot go myself.’
‘Your priest?’ Catherine said.
Azeema muttered, ‘The mullah? He is an old man with a grey beard. How can he ride so far in so short a time?’
‘Men tell me you are beautiful,’ Catherine said with a smile. ‘Are not your eyes black, and blacker from kohl? Could not tears shine in them, to make even an old man leap on a horse and ride till he dropped?’
Azeema chuckled delightedly. ‘I think it is possible. I can try, at least, and I am beautiful, though this Hindu dog of a Rawan does not think so--more than once every six months. Bah!’
‘Will you go tonight, then?’ Catherine cut in quickly.
‘I will go now, as soon as you have left me. That is one advantage I do have. None of these Hindus know the customs of our religion, and they are so afraid of the Great King--who is, of course, a believer--that they dare not forbid anyone to see the mullah at any time. So I go when I wish.’
Catherine rose to her feet and stooped to kiss the girl on the cushions. ‘God be with you,’ she said.
‘With us!’ Azeema amended, and then, shortly: ‘Don’t think I am not acting for myself too. I need a whole man, not the two-hundredth part of a bloodless weasel.’
The horses champed in the courtyard, and it was dawn. She counted the uncertain shapes of the party--Mansur; a lieutenant; five soldiers in dirty white, armed with swords; four servants, including Mansur’s; Azeema, the concubine; Jason; herself--fourteen in all. They had fourteen broken-down riding horses, and each servant led three pack horses, so there were twelve of those. Mansur sounded more than ever like a nervous merchant, and the pack horses were loaded with opium, cotton, and fine oils. The yellow coat and the black sail-hat leaned over a balcony above, in silence.
Azeema whispered in Catherine’s ear, ‘The mullah found he was not so old as he thought.’
She said, ‘Oh, Azeema!’
‘Don’t look so shocked. I only had to cry a little. I told you I was beautiful.’
Mansur said, ‘We are ready, lord.’
The Rawan said, ‘Go, then. You know what to do if the foreigners should try to escape--though I don’t think they will. And in the name of Vishnu, remember your skill at pretending when you are questioned. And don’t use the black cloths.’
They wound out of the gate and into the open, turned north, and settled down to a steady walking pace. They camped that night in a mango grove among rich fields; and the next in a thicket of jungle by another river; and on the third day, at a great pillar set in the road, they passed out of the Rawan’s kingdom and into the lands of the Great King, the Grand Mogul.
She heard Mansur speaking to Jason. ‘Now be on your guard. These Mohammedan officials are nothing but pirates. We shall be lucky if we reach the mountain
s with even half our loads.’
They rode on across the flat country, green with crops and ashake in the midday glare. Jason said, ‘Why is the Grand Mogul the overlord of our Rawan?’
Mansur said, ‘Because the devil Akbar conquered us in battle fifty years ago. So the Rawan must call himself a viceroy for his own lands!’
A galloping shape bore down on them in a cloud of dust from in front. Catherine tensed as a snaffle-chain jingled and a horse neighed. A voice said, ‘Cavalry ahead, Mansur. By the huts there.’ Ah, it was one of their own soldiers, ridden back from his place in the van.
Azeema muttered, ‘The old mullah rode fast!’
Mansur cried, ‘Cavalry already! Well, just pass by with a salute. If they stop you, whine that we are poor men.’
The hoofbeats receded up the road. Mansur began to mutter. ‘I see them now. A whole troop! There’s never been more than a couple of tax collectors here before.’
Jason said in disgust, ‘And we’re only just in Mogul territory. I can still see the frontier pillar back there--two miles!’ He edged his horse closer to Catherine’s and said, ‘Mogul cavalry ahead! Remember, now--we’re from Sagthali.’
That was the tale the Rawan had rehearsed them in, in case awkward questions were asked of them. Catherine said, ‘We’ll remember. But, Jason, if anything goes wrong, don’t fight! Whatever you do, don’t fight.’
‘It wouldn’t be any use,’ Jason said. ‘There are about twenty of them.’
Now she saw the green Mogul cavalrymen riding out to form a line across the road. On the left one of them had a golden drum, and on the right another unfurled a green standard, and before the centre a green and silver vision danced on a trampling grey.
Slowly, with the thin taratarararata of the drum rolling round the wide plain, and the sun glittering on the steel helmets and the chain mail and the drawn swords, the parties came together.
Mansur rode a few paces forward, alone. The drummer beat a final ruffle. Mansur’s shape bowed and rose, bowed in the dust, rose again. He stood silent now beside his horse.
The green-and-silver spoke. ‘I am an officer of the Great King’s service. Where are you from? Where are you going? What is your merchandise?’
Mansur cried, ‘Great prince, I am a merchant of Sagthali. These are my servants, guards and women. We have opium, cotton, and fine oils, which we take to Tibet beyond the mountains, to exchange there for gold, salt, and borax.’ He added something in a low whine which she could not hear.
The officer said, ‘Are you trying to bribe me, dog? Did you not hear? I am a lieutenant of the Great King.’
Mansur rose and fell in the dust, chanting flattery and apologies. The officer said, ‘Get up. We are looking for two foreigners, a man and a woman, who ran away with the Great King’s favourite dancer. Stand still, you!’
He came closer and passed down the line of their party. Opposite Jason, he said, ‘You! You’re the man. Get over there.’
Jason said, ‘I’m not! I am the merchant’s clerk, I swear it.’ Mansur wailed, ‘Majesty, there is some terrible mistake. I have known this youth for ten years.’
The officer said, ‘As it happens, it is just ten years and three months since the dancer was stolen.’
Jason shouted, ‘You’re a liar! God’s blood, ten years ago I was only--I was only twelve, and I was in Shrewford Pennel.’ But two green coats rode up, one on either side of him, and their steel flashed in short, threatening gestures. Catherine had her hand on his arm, and she felt him reach for his knife. He muttered, ‘I’m not going to leave you now!’
She cried, ‘Don’t fight, Jason. I’m coming with you.’ But what had he said? I’m not going to leave you.
The green-and-silver advanced on her. The voice, six inches from her face, said, ‘She’s another.’ She went meekly with the soldiers.
The officer said to Azeema, ‘Woman, show your face.’ Mansur wailed, ‘Majesty, that is a Mohammedan woman, a concubine of--one of my friends.’
The officer said, ‘Lower your veil. You are Azeema, the dancer?’
‘Yes, lord.’
Mansur screamed, ‘It’s impossible! She’s lying! She’s never danced in her life! Ten years ago she was only five!’
The officer said silkily, ‘The Great King trains his dancers young. Search them all.’
Jason said, dumbfounded amazement in his voice, ‘They’re taking everything we’ve got! The map! They’re taking the map from Mansur’s purse!’
Mansur cried, ‘Don’t take that! Majesty, it is a letter, a worthless letter, but important to the writer. A love letter, it is.’
The officer said, ‘Addressed to whom?’
Mansur said wildly, ‘To--to--to Tilni Bibi, the famous courtesan of Bareilly.’
‘We will deliver it. Wide is the generosity of the Great King!’ Mansur muttered incoherent praise on the name of the Great King. The officer said, ‘We will take the foreigners and the woman Azeema to the Great King. The rest of you may continue your journey. The blessings of Allah go with you.’
Mansur shrieked, ‘But lord, our horses! Our merchandise!’
‘Those who walk instead of riding live to a ripe old age,’ the officer replied. ‘And, as Jesus said, on whom be peace, “It is harder for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into heaven!” Go--and in future be more careful whom you pick up as servants and slave women.’
Catherine hardened her heart. Mansur sounded so miserable that she could almost wish to let him go free. But he was a murderer. She said, ‘Lord, that man Mansur Khan is--‘
The Mogul lieutenant interrupted, ‘I got the message, woman. I know who and what he is. But wait! There is nothing like an alternation of hope and despair to purge the soul, which that man’s soul most surely needs.’
Mansur and the Kishanpur officer and the five soldiers and the four servants trudged away down the wide dusty road between the crops. As they receded she saw them more clearly, a forlorn little group in the empty landscape.
The lieutenant waited until they were almost out of hearing. Then he raised his voice and bellowed, ‘Ohé, come back! The white woman says there is a notorious murderer among you.’ The Kishanpur party halted and gathered together in the distance.
The lieutenant commanded, ‘Three of you, gallop down and make them hurry!’ Three of his troopers darted forward, and then, hastily, Mansur’s party began to trudge back.
When they arrived the lieutenant examined them all again. At last he said, ‘The woman was wrong. I see no murderer here. You may go.’
They turned as one man and walked south as fast as their legs would carry them. The lieutenant sat quiet astride his horse until they again reached the borders of earshot. Then again he stood in his stirrups and shouted, ‘Ohé, come back! You have left your opium and cotton and fine oils behind. They are valuable.’
Faintly, after a long interval, came Mansur’s answering shout. ‘Please accept them as a gift, Your Majesty. We do not want them.’
The lieutenant controlled his laughter enough to shout, ‘Come back! Are you trying to get me accused of extortion?’ Once more the party trudged back. As they came close enough to blur before Catherine’s eyes, a green soldier walked his horse forward to meet them. A sword flashed--a single negligent back-handed stroke. Mansur’s head jumped and rolled in the dust. The rest of the party fled, yelling, down the road towards the distant boundary pillar.
At last the lieutenant stopped laughing. He said, ‘So this woman Azeema would rather serve in the household of His Majesty, as a cook and cleaning woman, than as a concubine in the palace of the Rawan?’
‘Yes, lord,’ Catherine said.
‘She is beautiful enough. In fact, she is so beautiful that the empress will probably have her nose cut off.’
‘Better noseless among the faithful than beautiful among the heathen,’ Azeema said stoutly.
‘There is one God, and Mohammed is the Prophet of God,’ the officer said devoutl
y. ‘All may be well. The empress has a kind heart--sometimes.’
‘But--‘ Jason said. ‘You knew we were coming?’
Catherine groaned aloud. This time it was she who had deceived him.
The officer’s helmet moved, and he said, ‘This fellow is weak in the head, isn’t he? What is he--a slave?’
Catherine said, ‘Yes, lord. He is my slave. May I have the map?’
The officer said, ‘Oh, no. I’ll look after that. My captain will want to see it. And if the story which you sent to me by the mullah should be false--Or if the map should be false--Mansur died quickly. The same result can be achieved much more slowly.’
They mounted their horses, and the lieutenant gave the order to move. She edged closer to Jason and said, ‘I had to do it.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked sullenly.
She hesitated and then answered, ‘Because I didn’t trust you. You said we couldn’t escape, but really you were afraid to. You thought you’d only meet the same kind of bitterness somewhere else.’
Jason said, ‘So we will. I will be offered the post of chief extortioner to the Great King. Or he will have us killed, after playing cat and mouse with us as the lieutenant did with poor Mansur.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘he won’t. Because the map is true.’
Five days of travel brought them to the royal city of Agra. Jason’s sullenness slowly disappeared as the miles fell away and no new evil befell him. She thought that perhaps his anger had never been much more than masculine pique, because it was she rather than he who had forced a way out of Kishanpur for them.
And then in a brief twilight they entered the city. The houses rose higher, and the noise increased as the cavalcade trotted on. The lieutenant shouted more often, ‘Clear the road!’ and the beggars whined, and the merchants shouted their wares. The sky burned fiercely in a dusty scarlet sunset, and far in the eye of the purple sun she saw wild geese flying north. Gradually a paler red bluff rose up to obscure the sun, and it became a great fortress, larger than any she had seen. They rode on, the trumpet screaming ahead and Jason silent with awe at her side, until the high fortress blurred and the black stone elephants beside the gate dimmed in her eyes. They entered the fort.
