"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 light 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.
A line of mounted Imperial guards cleared a pathway through the narrow
street, now a midday throng of bullock carts, dark-skinned porters,
ambling cattle, and black-veiled women balancing heavy brass pots atop
their heads. Along both sides of the street tan awnings shielded lines
of quick- eyed, bearded merchants, who squatted on their porches
beckoning all to inspect their unprecedented bargains in cloth, reeds,
betel leaves. Vendors sizzled flat bread in charcoal-fired round pans
and dropped balls of brown dough into dark pots of smoking oil,
seasoning the dusty air with piquant spice. Above the clatter of their
horses' hooves came a cacophony of street Hindi, squeaking cart wheels,
children's discordant piping.
Between the open shops were ornate doorways, framed in delicate
plasterwork scallops, leading upward to overhead balconies supported by
red sandstone brackets. Behind the latticework screens that fronted
these balconies--some carved rosewood, some filigreed marble--Hawksworth
could see clusters of idle women chewing betel and fanning themselves
as they leaned forward to inspect the procession below.
Hawksworth studied the helmeted guards around him, whose ornate shields
bore the Moghurs personal seal, and reflected on his introduction to
Agra. His caravan from the south had arrived at the city's outskirts
the evening before, after the sun's light had died away, and as he
requested, Vasant Rao had found a traditional guest house for them. It
was near the center of town, inconspicuous, and its primary amenities
were a rainproof thatch roof and a stone floor. Tomorrow, the Rajput
had told him, he must find a house befitting an ambassador.
The guards accompanying them into Agra had not even dismounted, had
turned back immediately for the south, and only Vasant Rao stayed to
share the evening meal. They had dined quickly on fried bread and
lentils and afterward the Rajput had retrieved his saddle from the
stable and, pillowing it under his helmet, immediately fallen asleep,
curved sword in hand. Hawksworth had lain awake listening to the night
sounds of Agra, wondering what his next move should be. Sleep finally
overtook him just before dawn broke.
He awoke to discover Vasant Rao already gone. But the Rajput had
mysteriously returned in time to share a breakfast of more fried bread
and spiced curds. After eating, Vasant Rao had announced that Arangbar
expected him in _durbar_ that afternoon. The rest of the morning had
been spent hastily procuring bearers for his chest of gifts and
cleaning the mildewed doublet and hose he had been instructed by the
Company to wear. Just after noon, a contingent of the Moghul's personal
guard had arrived
unexpectedly with orders to escort them through the center of Agra,
directly to the Moghul's private entrance to the Red Fort.
Their horses emerged abruptly from the narrow, jostling street and
Hawksworth realized they had entered a wide, sunlit plaza opening
outward from the fort's south gate. The close, acrid smells of the town
were immediately scourged by the searing midday heat. Hawksworth reined
in his horse and stared at the fort, incredulous at its immensity.
They were facing two concentric walls of polished red sandstone, the
outer easily forty feet high and the inner at least seventy. Both were
obviously thick, with battlements loop-holed for musketry and crowned
by rampart-ways. A wide wooden drawbridge leading to the entrance
spanned a thirty-foot, water-filled moat that followed the outer wall
in both directions as far as the eye could see.
It had to be the largest, most powerfully built fortress Hawksworth had
ever seen. No story he had heard, no imagined grandeur, had prepared
him for this first view. The sight was at once awesome and chilling.
No wonder the Moghul frightens all of India. It's impregnable. The
outer blocks of the walls seem to be linked by massive iron rings and
the round towers spaced along them have slots designed for heavy
ordnance. With two thick walls, which probably also have a moat
between, it would be impossible to storm. And cannon would be almost
useless.
Vasant Rao monitored Hawksworth's reaction, and his dark eyes betrayed
his pride. "Do you understand now why the Moghul is held in such
regard? No king in the world could have a palace as grand as this. Did
you know that the distance around the walls is over one _kos_. What
would that be? Around two of your English miles?"
Hawksworth nodded assent as their guards led them directly across the
wide drawbridge and through a passageway. The outer edge of the
drawbridge was connected by heavy chains to rollers at the top of the
entryway. The two rollers worked in a stone channel cut upward into the
steep walls of the passage and were held in place by iron bars inserted
into the channel. The bridge would lift automatically by simple removal
of the iron bars. Around them now was a small, heavily defended
barbican and ahead, between the outer and inner wall, was a gateway set
in a towering portal almost eighty feet high that was faced with
gleaming blue enamel tiles.
"How many gates like this are there?"
"The Red Fort actually has four gates, one on the river and one on each
of the other sides. This is the southern gate, which the Moghul
recently renamed the Amar Singh Gate"--Vasant Rao lowered his voice--
"after a defiant Rajput who he murdered. I have never seen it before,
but it is even more beautiful than the public Delhi Gate, on the north,
which is inlaid marble. The Red Fort is truly astonishing. Tell me,
Captain, is there anything in your England to compare?"
"Nothing." Hawksworth seached for his voice. "Why is it so large?"
"This is the place where India is governed. And the Moghul does not
live alone. He has to house over a thousand women, an army to protect
him and his treasury, and more servants than man can count." The Rajput
seemed momentarily puzzled by the question. Then he continued with a
sly smile. "The fort was built by the Moghul's father, the great Akman.
People say it required over eight years to complete. He also built
another complete city in the desert a few _kos_ west of here, but later
he abandoned it and moved back to Agra. Surely your English king
governs from a palace."
"His Majesty, King James, has a palace at Hampton Court." Hawksworth
paused. "But England is governed by laws made in Parliament, which has
its own place to meet."
"It sounds like you have a very weak king. Captain Hawksworth, if he
cannot rule." Vasant Rao glanced nervously at the guards. "You would do
well not to tell that to Arangbar. In India there is only one law, the
word of the Moghul."
As they entered the portico of the Amar Singh Gate, Hawksworth glanced
behind him, relieved to see that their porters still followed, one at
each side of his sea chest. Vasant Rao had cautioned him not to deliver
all the gifts at once, since Arangbar would expect a new gift each time
they met. King James's letter he carried personally, carefully secreted
inside his doublet.
Inside the archway of the gate were sets of thick wooden doors, opened
back against the sides. These inner doors bristled with long iron
spikes, and as Hawksworth puzzled over them, Vasant Rao caught his
questioning look.
"Those spikes embedded in the doors are to prevent war elephants from
battering them in with their foreheads. It's common in a fortress." He
smiled. "But then I keep forgetting your England probably has no
elephants."
Ahead, at the terminus of the archway, the path was blocked by a heavy
chain and armed sentries. The guards reined in their horses and began
to dismount, while their leader passed brusque orders to Vasant Rao.
"We ride no farther," Vasant Rao translated as he swung from the
saddle. "He says no one except the Moghul himself, his sons, or his
women is allowed to ride through the Amar Singh Gate. It's strictly
enforced."
Hawksworth paused one last time, feeling about him the weight of the
thick walls and the ornate tower rising above them, a great blue jewel
in the afternoon sun. For a moment he had the curious sensation of
entering a giant tomb. He took a deep breath and slowly dismounted,
feeling suddenly conspicuous in his formal silk hose and ruffled
doubtlet.
Vasant Rao passed the reins of his horse to a waiting servant and drew
alongside, his eyes intent. "Does it seem strange to you that the
Moghul would name one of the four gates to the Red Fort after a
Rajput?" He stroked the curl of his moustache, and lowered his voice.
"It's a story you should hear. It's not meant as an honor."
"What do you mean?"
"It's intended to be a warning to all Rajputs of what happens when he
is defied. There was, several years ago, a Rajput adventurer named Amar
Singh. He sought to rise to position in Arangbar's court--he eventually
did rise to the rank of a thousand horse--and along the way he asked and
received the help of an old courtier who had influence. Only later did
the Rajput find out that this man expected his younger daughter in
payment." Vasant Rao smile wryly. "They say she was incredibly
beautiful. Well, Amar Singh was a true Rajput, and he was outraged.
Naturally he refused. So the courtier who had helped him decided to
have revenge, and he went to Arangbar and told him about a certain
beautiful Rajput girl who would make an excellent addition to the
_zenana_. The Moghul immediately sent some of his personal guards to
Amar Singh's house to take the girl. When Amar Singh realized why the
guards had come, he called for the girl and stabbed her to death before
their eyes. Then he took horse and rode to the Red Fort, even riding
through this gate. He rode into the audience hall and demanded that
Arangbar appear and explain. Such things, Captain, are simply not done
in Agra. The moment he dismounted he was cut to pieces by a dozen of
Arangbar's guards. Then the Moghul decided to name this gate after him,
to remind all Rajputs of his fate. But he need not have bothered. No
Rajput will ever forget."
Leaving the servants with their horses, they proceeded on foot up a
wide, inclined path that led through an enclosed square. Around the
sides of the square were porticoes and galleries, where horsemen with
swords and pikes waited.
"Those men are on their _chauki_, their seventh-day watch." Vasant Rao
pointed to the porticoes. "Every soldier in Agra must stand watch once
every seven days. Either here or in the large square inside, where
we're going. It's the Moghul's law."
They passed through another large gate and suddenly a half dozen
turbaned guards, in leather armor and wearing long curved swords, drew
alongside, as though expecting them. Now with a double escort they
began the ascent of a long walkway, perhaps twenty paces wide, situated
between two high brick walls. Hawksworth's leather shoes padded against
the square paving stones, which had been striated to permit easy
footing for the Moghurs horses and elephants. As they reached the end,
they emerged into another large court, comprising the southeast corner
of the fort.
Ahead was yet a fourth gate. As they passed through, Hawksworth
realized it was protected by more mounted
horsemen in the recessed lower porticoes, and archers in elevated
galleries. They walked past the wide wooden doors and into a vast
milling square. It was several hundred feet on the side and ringed with
arcades where still more mounted horsemen waited. A wide roadway
divided the square.
"This is the quadrangle. I only saw it once before, but then I entered
from the public side." Vasant Rao indicated an identical gate, directly
opposite. "Over there."
The guards directed them toward a large multicolored silk canopy
fanning out from the tall buildings on their right. The area beneath
the canopy was cordoned off from the square by a red velvet railing,
and porters with cudgels stood around the perimeter. Vasant Rao seemed
increasingly nervous as their escorts led them forward, past the guards
at the entry to the canopy. Hawksworth noticed that the air beneath the
canopy was heavy with incense--ambergris and aloe--burning in gold and
silver censers hanging from poles.
"The arcade ahead is the _Diwan-i-Am_, the Hall of Public Audience,
where the Moghul holds his daily _durbar_." Vasant Rao pointed toward
the steps that led upward to a large open pavilion at the far end of
the canopy. It was several stories high and over a hundred feet on each
side. The roof was borne by marble arches supported by rows of white
columns. "No man with rank under five hundred horse is allowed to enter
inside the railing. I think that's why we have a special escort."
Above the crowd, at the far end of the hall, was a raised platform of
white marble, standing about three feet from the floor and covered by
its own tapestried canopy. The platform was surrounded by a silver
railing, and several turbaned men holding rolls of documents were now
struggling to gain a position at the rail. All around them the crowd
buzzed with anticipation.
Behind and above the platform, in a marble gallery set in the wall,
rested an immense throne carved from black marble. At its four corners
were life-sized statues of rearing lions, each spangled with jewels,
which supported in their silver paws a canopy of pure gold. The walls
on either side of the throne were latticework marble screens, through
which the _zenana_ women could watch.
"I've never seen the throne this close before. It's famous." Vasant Rao
paused. "And there are some in Agra who would sell their brother to
have it."
The Imperial guards suddenly saluted, fists against their leather
shields, turned and marched down the steps of the _Diwan-i-Am_ and back
into the square. Vasant Rao watched them disappear into the crowd and
then he shook the left sleeve of his riding cloak and a naked _katar_,
the deadly "tiger knife" all Rajputs carried, dropped into his hand.
Its handle was a gold-plated grip between two prongs, designed to be
held in the fist and thrust directly forward. Without a word he slipped
it into a sheath secured in the sash of his belt.
Hawksworth pretended not to notice and instead turned to examine the
crowd. Next to them an assembly of Persian diplomats, wearing heavy
robes and jewel-encrusted turbans, eyed Hawksworth's plain doublet and
hose with open contempt. The air was thick was sweat and incense and
the sparkle of gold and jewels.
Uniformed servants sounded a drum roll on two large brass kettles at
the back of the throne and the velvet curtains behind the throne
parted. Two guards with gold-handled swords entered briskly and stood
at attention, one on either side of the parted curtains.
Hawksworth felt his pulse surge as the next figure entered through the
curtains.
He was of middle height, with a small moustache and glistening diamond
earrings. He wore a tight patterned turban, a blue robe secured by a
gold brocade sash, jeweled rings on both hands, and a massive string of
pearls. A golden-handled sword and dagger were at his waist, and two
feline cubs frisked by his side. Hawksworth studied them in confusion,
and after a moment realized they must be baby lions, an animal famous
in English folklore but never actually seen firsthand by anyone in
England.
At that instant a din of kettledrums erupted from galleries at the
sides of the square. Almost as one those waiting called out a salaam,
bent forward, and touched the back of their right hand to the ground
and then to their forehead as they drew erect. The _durbar_ of the
Moghul had begun.
"You did not perform the _teslim_." Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth
with dismay in his voice. "He may have taken note of it. That was
unwise, my friend."
"An ambassador for a king doesn't prostrate himself."
"You're new to India. That may be taken as an excuse. The other
ambassadors here know better."
As they watched, three other men slowly emerged from behind the throne
and took their places on the marble platform, standing beside the
Moghul. They all wore jeweled turbans and each had a sash of gold cloth
about the waist. Hawksworth turned to Vasant Rao in time to see a look
of hatred flash through his eyes.
"Who are they?"
"The two younger men are his sons. I saw them once before in Agra. It's
traditional that his sons join him at the _durbar_ when they are here.
The younger one is Allaudin. He will be married next month to Queen
Janahara's daughter. The other one is his drunken brother Parwaz. The
older man is Zainul Beg, the Moghurs _wazir_, his chief counsel. He's
the father of Nadir Sharif, the prime minister, and he's also the
father of Queen Janahara."
Hawksworth watched as yet another man emerged through the curtain,
walked casually past the throne, and was helped onto the marble
platform directly in front. He turned to the silver rail, where a dozen
petitions were immediately thrust up to him.
Vasant Rao nudged Hawksworth and pointed. "And that's Nadir Sharif, the
prime minister. Remember him well. No one reaches the Moghul without
his consent."
The prime minister paused to study the faces below, and then reached
out for a petition. He unrolled it, scanned it quickly, and turned to
Arangbar, passing it upward with a comment only those by the throne
could hear. The business of the day was underway.
Arangbar listened with obvious boredom as one petition after another
was set before him. He held counsel with his sons and with the _wazir_,
and frequently he would turn to the marble screen off the right side of
the throne and discuss a petition with someone waiting behind it.
Below the platform several ambassadors shuffled, trying to mask their
impatience. Hawksworth suddenly realized that the jewel-encrusted boxes
they held, many of beaten gold, contained presents for the Moghul. He
looked at his own leatherbound wooden chest, shabby by comparison, and
his heart began to sink.
After a short while, the Moghul seemed to lose patience with the
petitions and, ignoring the waiting nobles, abruptly signaled for a
review of the day's elephant troops. Moments later, a line of war
elephants entered through the public gate and began to march single-
file across the back of the square. Their tusks were wreathed with gold
bands and they wore coverings of embroidered cloth which were strung
with tinkling bells and tassels of Tibetan yak hair. As each reached a
spot directly in front of the _Diwan-i-Am_ it stopped, kneeled, and
trumpeted to Arangbar.
When the last elephant had passed, drums were sounded again and a group
of eight men came into the square leading a snarling beast by heavy
chains attached to its iron collar. It was tawny, with a heavy mane and
powerful paws, and it roared out its displeasure as it writhed and
clawed at the chains.
Hawksworth took one look and realized it was a fully-grown male lion.
"That seems to be His Majesty's new toy." Vasant Rao pointed nervously.
"He collects lions as pets. That one must have just been captured."
Arangbar studied the lion with obvious delight. Then he bent down and
stroked one of the cubs by his side, lifting it to better view the new
prize. The assembly watched spellbound for a moment, then burst into
cheers.
As Hawksworth watched, Arangbar set down the lion cub and spoke with
his _wazir_. Zainul Beg stared into the crowd and then pointed. Moments
later the black cassock of a Jesuit appeared at the railing. With a
start Hawksworth recognized Father Alvarez Sarmento, last seen in the
courtyard of Mukarrab Khan's palace in Surat. The Jesuit listened to
the _wazir's_ instructions and then turned to the crowd. His
announcement was in English.
"His Majesty orders the ambassador from England to come forward."
Vasant Rao touched Hawksworth's arm and reached out to clasp his hand.
"This is your moment, my friend. By the time _durbar_ is through I will
be far from here."
"Why are you leaving?" Hawksworth turned and looked into his eyes,
suddenly realizing that Vasant Rao was the closest thing he had to a
friend in India.
"It's impossible for me to stay longer." Vasant Rao paused, and
Hawksworth sensed his warmth was genuine. Suddenly the Rajput reached
into the sash at his belt and drew out his sheathed _katar_. "You saved
my life once, in the village, and I've never found the words to thank
you. Perhaps this can say it for me. Take it as a token of friendship
from a Rajput. It was given to me by my father, and it has tasted blood
more times than I can count. You're a brave and honest man, and I think
we'll meet again."
Before Hawksworth could speak, Vasant Rao embraced him warmly and
melted into the crowd.
A pathway was clearing through the glaring nobles, and Hawksworth
quickly slipped the katar into his doublet as he leaned over to secure
the chest. When he reached the silver railing, Sarmento was waiting.
"Let me welcome you to Agra, Captain." The Jesuit spoke quietly in
English, his face a hard mask. "I pray God gave you a pleasant
journey."
"I thought you were bound for Lahore."
"In time, Captain, in time. But we have an Agra mission as well. Our
flock here grows. It must be tended. And do you remember what we agreed
that night in Surat?"
"Translate for the Inglish ambassador." Arangbar's voice interrupted,
speaking in Persian. "I would know his name."
"He asks your name." Sarmento spoke quietly to Hawksworth in English.
"You must bow when you give it."
"I am Captain-General Brian Hawksworth, ambassador of His Majesty, King
James the First of England." Hawksworth replied in Turkish, trying to
remember the speech he had been told to deliver. A look of delighted
surprise flashed through Arangbar's eyes. Hawksworth bowed and then
continued. "His Majesty, King James, has asked me to convey his
friendship to His Most Noble Majesty, Arangbar, Moghul of India,
together with certain unworthy tokens of his regard." Hawksworth tried
to think quickly of a way to explain the unimpressive gifts King James
had sent. "Those trifles he sends are not intended as gifts deserving
of Your Majesty, for that would be a bounty no single man could
deliver. Instead he has asked me to bring certain common products of
our country, not as gifts, for they are too unworthy, but as samples of
English workmanship that Your Majesty may examine personally the goods
he offers your merchants in trade. These are the first of many, more-
worthy gifts he is now assembling for Your Majesty, to be sent on
future voyages to your land."
"You speak the tongue of the Moghuls, Ambassador. Already your king
does me honor. I welcome you in his name." Arangbar leaned forward to
watch as Hawksworth opened the clasp on the chest.
The first items were samples of English woolens, lace, and brocade,
crafted into doublets. Hawksworth laid these aside and took out a
silver-trimmed brace of pistols, a gold- handled sword, an hourglass in
carved ivory, and finally a gold whistle studded with small diamonds.
The Moghul peered down from his marble throne impassively, and then
called for them to be brought to him.
While he examined each gift briefly, assessing it with a quick glance
and calling for the next, Hawksworth reached into the corner of the box
and withdrew the next present, a three-cornered English hat topped with
a feather. When Arangbar saw the hat his eyes brightened.
"At last I can look like a _topiwallah_." He pushed aside the other
gifts and called for the hat. He turned it in his hand for a moment,
then removed his jeweled turban and clapped it on his head with
delight.
"The _feringhi_ hat is a puzzling invention, Ambassador Khawksworth."
Arangbar stumbled over the pronunciation of the name as he signaled for
a mirror. "What purpose it serves I have never understood. You, I
observe, do not wear one yourself."
"Hats are not to my taste, may it please Your Majesty." Hawksworth
bowed again and then continued. "His Majesty, King James of England,
also has asked me to deliver a portrait of himself to Your Majesty,
together with letter expressing his desire for friendship between your
land and his." Hawksworth produced a small framed watercolor from the
wooden chest. It was a miniature on vellum, scarcely more than an inch
square, by Isaac Oliver, a celebrated artist from the school of
Nicholas Hilliard, who had been fashionable under Queen Elizabeth.
While Arangbar examined the painting, scrutinizing the workmanship as
might a connoisseur, Hawksworth reached into his doublet and withdrew
the letter. It was passed to Nadir Sharif, who presented it to
Arangbar.
The Moghul reluctantly handed the portrait to Allaudin, then inspected
the leather binding of the letter. Finally he broke the red wax seal
and began to study the writing, a quizzical expression spreading over
his face.
"The seal and script are worthy of a king. But it is in a language of
Europe."
"There are two copies, Your Majesty. One in English, the language of my
king, and one in Spanish, a language something like the Portugals
speak."
"Then we will have Father Sarmento translate."
Sarmento moved to the silver railing and took the leatherbound letter
with a distasteful expression. He examined it for a moment and then
began to read it silently, the color slowly draining from his face.
"What message does your king send, Ambassador?"
"His admiration for Your Majesty, whose reputation has reached even
Europe. And his offer of full and open trade between your nation and
his."
"The letter is basely penned, Your Majesty." Sarmento's face was red
with dismay as he turned to Arangbar. "Its style is unworthy of a great
prince."
Arangbar examined the Jesuit with a troubled gaze and shifted on his
throne.
"May it please Your Majesty, this man is the enemy of England."
Hawksworth pointed at Sarmento. "How can my king's letter be ill-
penned, when he entreats Your Majesty's friendship?"
Arangbar paused a moment and then he smiled broadly. "A reasonable
reply. The Inglish, I see, are a blunt-spoken race." He glanced at
Sarmento. "And we have already seen their seamanship."
"Your words honor my king, Your Majesty." Hawksworth found himself
bowing again and wondering how to respond.
"We would hear more of England. Is it large?"
"Not nearly as large as India, Your Majesty. It is an island, but the
queen of all the islands of the West."
"It is a rocky, barren speck in the great seas of Europe, Your
Majesty," Sarmento interjected himself, straining to hold his
composure. "A breeder of drunken fishermen and pirates. Its king is a
heretic, a sovereign of lawless privateers and an enemy of the Holy
Church."
"It is a noble land, Your Majesty, ruled by a free king, not by a
Spanish tyrant or an Italian pope, like the land of the Portugals. Our
cannon are the best in the world, our ships the swiftest, our men the
bravest. No flag but our own has ever flown above our soil. Our ships
have sailed all the seas of the world, from the East to the West. My
king's seamen have explored the seas north of England, searching for a
northeast passage to the Indies, and the Americas, searching for a
northwest passage. Off your own shores we have met the galleons of
Portugal, as Your Majesty must know, and in the West Indies we have
challenged and overcome the carracks of Papist Spain. There brave
English captains named Hawkins and Drake stood off Spaniards ten times
their number. The very name of England strikes fear in the heart of a
Portugal or a Spaniard."
Arangbar toyed with the jeweled whistle as he listened. "Your England
interests us, Ambassador Khawksworth." He paused for a moment and
reviewed the small, dispiriting assemblage of gifts. "We would know
when your king's next voyage will be."
"Very soon, may it please Your Majesty." Hawksworth squirmed, and
noticed Nadir Sharif suddenly edge closer to listen.
"But your king must send out voyages regularly? We have heard of the
English traders in our southern seas. Do you not know when the next
voyage will be, or what gifts your king is preparing? Surely he will
send them this year?"
"May it please Your Majesty"--Hawksworth fumbled with the railing,
trying to gain time--"I . . ."
Prince Parwaz suddenly plucked at Arangbar's arm and pointed into the
crowd. A tall bearded man with a vast turban and two ornate swords at
his side had moved next to the silver railing, near Hawksworth, holding
a petition in his hand.
"He is the man I spoke of yesterday." Parwaz spoke in Turki, and his
words seemed slurred. Hawksworth realized he was tipsy. "I told him to
bring his petition today personally. He's a commander with the rank of
a thousand horse. His stipend is eight thousand rupees a month. He
claims he has served honorably, most recently in the siege of Qandahar,
but that he must resign his _mansab_ and dismiss his men and horse
unless his stipend is increased."
Arangbar examined the man for a moment, then addressed him in Turki.
"What is your name and rank?"
"I am Amanat Mubarik, Your Majesty. I maintain a thousand horse, the
finest Arabian blood in India." The man stood straight and spoke with a
loud, clear voice.
"Is not your stipend the amount prescribed any man who maintains that
number?"
"It is, Your Highness. But I am not any man. I am a Pathan, and my
father was Fath Shah. No enemy of Your Majesty has ever seen the back
of my shield. His Highness, Prince Parwaz, saw me defend the royal
encampment five years ago when he moved south of the Narbada. With my
cavalry I held position when all others called for retreat. I challenge
any man here today to do me battle in your presence. With any weapon.
On horseback or on foot. Then you may decide if I am as other men."
The Moghul examined him carefully for a long moment.
"If you are not like other men, then I will let you prove it." Arangbar
pointed beyond the marble porticoes. "Will you fight with the lion?"
The Pathan commander turned and stared blankly into the sunlit square,
where the captured lion was snarling and pawing at its chains.
"A lion is a wild beast, Your Majesty. What trial is it for a man to
contest with a lion?"
"I think it would be the best trial of all." Arangbar's eyes began to
glow.
"A beast has no understanding, Majesty." He shifted nervously as he
realized Arangbar was not jesting. "It's not a fit thing for a man to
fight."
"You will joust with him." The fancy seemed to flood Arangbar with
pleasure, and he turned abruptly to one of the guards. "Give him a
glove and a truncheon. That should suffice for a man who claims bravery
above all others."
Hawksworth watched in disbelief as the dazed commander was led from the
_Diwan-i-Am_ and into the quadrangle. A murmur of amazement passed
through the crowd.
The square cleared quickly as the lion was brought forward by its
keepers. Still incredulous, the Pathan slowly pulled the heavy glove
onto his left hand, then he took the truncheon, no more than a foot and
a half long, in his right. Guards took his swords and turban and in
moments he and the lion were faced off in the afternoon sunshine.
Hawksworth forced himself to watch as the commander began to spar with
the lion, a young male with powerful claws. He managed to cudgel the
lion several times, with the effect that it became more enraged than
harmed. Then with a roar it sprang, pulling free of its keepers, and
they went down together, rolling in the dust of the square.
The Pathan continued to bravely cudgel the lion, even while its claws
ripped across his face and arms. Hawksworth watched the lion's hard
tail whip for balance as it pawed again and again at the truncheon.
Suddenly the man pulled free of its grasp and, with a wide arcing
swing, brought the truncheon directly across the crown of the lion's
head. Its rear haunches clawed upward spastically and then it pitched
unconscious into the bloody dust, its body still twitching.
A cheer rose from the crowd of onlookers as the Pathan slowly drew
himself erect. Hawksworth realized that the right side of his face had
been completely ripped away by the lion's sharp claws. He made a few
halting steps toward the _Diwan-i-Am_, wheeled dizzily, and collapsed
in a pool of blood. He was dead by the time the guards reached him.
Arangbar had watched in spellbound delight. He clapped his hands and
turned to Parwaz, whose glazed eyes seemed not to have fully
comprehended the spectacle.
"Astounding. I never knew a man could kill a lion with a mere club. He
was braver than he knew. If he has sons, I will allow them to keep half
his estate." Arangbar turned to the guard captain standing by the
curtained entrance. "Tomorrow select ten of your best men and we will
bring more lions. What better test of bravery?"
The uniformed men standing at attention around the perimeter of the
_Diwan-i-Am_ all blanched but their eyes remained fixed straight ahead.
Then Arangbar suddenly remembered Hawksworth.
"Does England have men as brave as ours, Ambassador?"
Hawksworth felt a cold sweat in his palms.
"No man in England would dare challenge one of Your Majesty's lions."
Arangbar laughed loudly. Before he could respond, the _wazir_ was
whispering in his ear. He glanced at the marble screen directly behind
his throne and nodded. Then he turned to Hawksworth.
"We are called away, Ambassador. I'm told I must take my afternoon
rest. This is the time of day I retire to the _zenana_ for one
_pahar_." He winked and gestured toward the marble screen. "Her Majesty
rules our time. But I want to speak more with you today about this
island of England. And about your king's schedule for trade. You will
attend me in the Diwan-i-Khas this evening."
"As Your Majesty pleases."
As Arangbar rose his eye caught the painting. He picked it up and
scrutinized it, then turned to Hawksworth.
"Is this a fair example of Inglish painting?"
"It came from the school of a celebrated artist, Your Majesty. His
Majesty, King James, sat to have it painted especially for you."
Hawksworth sensed that Arangbar had taken more interest in the painting
than in any of the other gifts, except perhaps the hat. "The painters
of England are the finest in the world."
The Moghul stirred slightly and then summoned a small, wiry man with
heavy brows from the first row of courtiers. He briskly moved to the
front and salaamed to Arangbar. The Moghul passed the painting to him
and together they studied it, conversing quietly in Persian. Then
Arangbar turned to Hawksworth.
"We have a school of artists here in the palace, Ambassador
Khawksworth. This man, who directs the school, says this portrait's
background is too dark, the eyes lifeless. And it is neither three-
quarter nor full face, as is our proven convention. Consequently it
gives no sense of your king's depth of character." Arangbar smiled. "He
also says the portraits he and his men execute are far more difficult.
They catch the soul of the man, not merely his physical likeness."
"May it please Your Majesty, I cannot accept what he says."
Arangbar translated to the artist, who replied quickly in Persian,
casting a quick, contemptuous glance at Hawksworth.
"He declares he could easily duplicate this simple portrait of your
king, in a likeness so exact you could not tell his copy from the
original."
"Such a thing is not possible, Your Majesty. No man in the world could
execute this exact painting, save the man who first put in on paper."
Arangbar again translated for his painter, who replied animatedly.
"My Chief Painter says he and his workshop could easily
produce four copies of this, any one of which would pass for the
original."
"May it please Your Majesty, I say it is impossible. European painting
is a centuries' old tradition, requiring years of apprenticeship and
study."
The men around Hawksworth had begun to shift uncomfortably. The Moghul
was never contradicted. Yet he seemed to relish the dispute.
"Then we'll set a wager. What will you wager me, Ambassador, that I can
make this one painting of your king into five?"
"I know not what to lay with so great a prince, nor does it befit me to
name a sum to Your Majesty." Hawksworth shifted uneasily, unsure of the
protocol of betting with kings.
"Then if you'll not wager with me, wager with my painter."
"Begging Your Majesty's pardon, your painter is no more suited to wager
with an ambassador than I am to wager with Your Majesty."
"Then wager with my prime minister." He turned to Nadir Sharif. "What
will you lay?"
"Five thousand gold mohurs, Majesty."
Hawksworth swallowed hard, realizing the amount was almost ten thousand
pounds English sterling, more money than he had ever seen.
"Money is not an honorable bet among those who speak for great princes,
Your Majesty." Hawksworth glanced about wildly, then an idea came. "But
perhaps I could wager your prime minister a horse, a fine Arabian
stallion."
"Done." Arangbar beamed. "I'll have the paintings tonight."
The painter stared at Arangbar in dismay.
"It's not possible, Majesty. There's not time."
"You'll find a way. Or you'll owe Nadir Sharif a horse."
Arangbar passed the painting back to the painter and whirled with a
flourish to leave. Around Hawksworth the nobles all bowed to the
ground.
Hawksworth turned quickly to scan the back of the crowd, but Vasant Rao
had disappeared. Then guards surrounded him and before he knew what was
happening he was swept past Sarmento, whose eyes still glowed with
hatred, toward a marble doorway at the corner of the _Diwan-i-Am_.