Nadir Sharif studied the pigeon as it glided onto the red
sandstone ledge and rustled its feathers in exhausted satisfaction. It
cocked its white-spotted head for a moment as it examined the prime
minister, then waddled contentedly toward the water cup waiting just
inside the carved stone pigeon house.
He immediately recognized it as one of the birds he kept stationed in
Gwalior, his last pigeon stage en route to Agra from the south. The
cylinder bound to its leg, however, was not one of his own. Imprinted
on its silver cap was the seal of the new Portuguese Viceroy of Goa,
Miguel Vaijantes.
Nadir Sharif waited patiently for the pigeon to drink. He knew well the
rewards of patience. He had waited patiently, studying the _feringhi_,
for a full week. And he had learned almost all he needed to know.
The Englishman had been invited to durbar every day since his arrival.
Arangbar was diverted by his stories and bemused by his rustic gifts.
(The only gift that had not entertained Arangbar was the book of maps
he had wheedled out of the Englishman, which upon inspection showed
India as something far less than the greatest continent on the globe.
But Arangbar found the map's rendering of India's coastline to be
sufficiently naive to cast the accuracy of the entire book into
question.) This was the first _feringhi _Arangbar had ever met who
could speak Turkish and understand his native Turki, and the Moghul
rejoiced in being able to snub the Jesuits and dispense with their
services as translators.
But most of all, Arangbar loved to challenge the Englishman to drinking
bouts, as night after night they matched cups in the _Diwan-i-Khas
_until near midnight. As Arangbar and the Englishman drew closer, the
Jesuits had grown distraught to near madness. The hard-drinking
Englishman bragged of the East India Company and its bold plans for
trade, of the old Levant Company and its disputes with Spain over
Mediterranean routes, of English privateering in the West Indies. Of
everything . . . except when the next voyage would come.
Nadir Sharif had listened closely to their expansive talk all those
nights, and he had finally deciphered to his own satisfaction the
answer to the question uppermost in Arangbar's mind.
The Englishman is bluffing. England has no fleet. At least no fleet
that can ever hope to threaten Portuguese control of the Indian Ocean.
There'll be no more voyages, and no more presents, for at least a year.
The Englishman is living a fool's dream.
When his European presents are gone, and he's spent what's left of his
money buying jewels and gifts for the Moghul, he'll be dropped from
court. Arangbar plays him like a puppet, always hinting the _firman
_will be ready tomorrow. But there'll be no _firman _unless Arangbar
can be convinced the English king is powerful enough to protect Indian
shipping from Portuguese reprisals at sea. And this the English clearly
cannot do. At least not now, not without a fleet. The Englishman is
living on borrowed time.
And I'm beginning to think he suspects it himself. He drinks more than
a man in his place should. He's always able to stay in control, but
just barely. If Arangbar were not always drunk himself, he would have
noticed it also.
Nadir Sharif glanced at the silver cylinder and smiled to himself. So
His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, is worried. Undoubtedly he's
demanding I contain the Englishman, isolate him from Arangbar.
It will hardly be necessary. The Englishman is destined to be forgotten
soon. How much longer can he hold the Moghul's attention? A month? Two
months? I know his supply of trifles for Arangbar is already half
depleted.
But why burden the Viceroy with this insight? Bargain with him. Let him
pay enough and I will guarantee with my life that the sun will rise
tomorrow morning. The end of the Englishman is no less sure.
Nadir Sharif stroked the pigeon lovingly as he began to unwind the silk
binding holding the cylinder, and it reminded him again of the Deccan.
Still no pigeons from Mumtaz. How curious that her one dispatch in the
last month, the one brought by the Rajput, was merely to request that
small accommodation for the Englishman. Who knows why she asked it?
Perhaps it was a joke of the prince's.
Nadir Sharif congratulated himself on how easy it had been. The
Englishman had never known.
And it was obvious the woman Kamala _had _changed him, smoothed him.
Was the prince grooming him for something? If so, why send the request
through Mumtaz? Whatever the reason, it had been a pleasure to grant
this one favor for the daughter he doted on. He also realized it might
well be the last favor he could ever do for her.
It was clear now that Prince Jadar would be banished from Agra forever.
The events of the next four weeks were inexorable.
Today Arangbar's birthday celebrations begin. Next week Allaudin will
be guest of honor at a _shikar_, a royal hunt. Two weeks after that,
the wedding formalities begin, and the following week is the wedding
itself. Four weeks and Jadar will be finished. Even if he returned to
Agra today, he could not forestall the inevitable.
Nadir Sharif took the pigeon on his wrist and offered it a few grains
of soaked _dal_ from his own hand as he gently slipped off the silver
cylinder. When the bird was pecking contentedly he eased it onto the
ledge, twisted away the silver cap of the cylinder, and settled against
the rooftop divan to translate the cipher.
The morning wind from the Jamuna grew suddenly chill against his skin.
Then, as the message slowly emerged, the wind from the Jamuna became
ice.
Nadir Sharif translated the cipher again, to be sure. But there could
be no mistaking what it said. Or what it meant. He would have declared
its contents an absurd hoax, perhaps even a hoax inspired by the
Englishman, had not the message been intercepted by the Portuguese, by
capture of one of Jadar's own pigeons.
The cipher did not say so, but doubtless a copy had also been sent to
Arangbar. Even had it not, the Moghul still would hear the news within
the day. His own intelligence network was the best in India, after that
of the queen.
He closed the door of the pigeon house, picked up a small silver bell
beside the divan, and rang lightly. Almost before he had replaced the
bell, a eunuch was waiting.
"Your pleasure, Sharif Sahib."
"The Englishman. Where is he now?"
"In the garden, Sharif Sahib. He's always there at this time of day,
with the Hindu woman."
"What's he doing there?"
"Who can say, Sharif Sahib? All we know is he goes into the garden
every day around noon--I think the Hindu woman may be teaching him to
play the sitar there--before going to _durbar _in the Red Fort. But he
will be leaving soon now, as you must, to be present for His Majesty's
birthday weighings."
"The English _feringhi _was invited?" Nadir Sharif was momentarily
startled.
"He received an invitation, Sharif Sahib."
"Bring him to the reception room. I will see him now, before he
leaves."
The eunuch snapped around and was gone. Nadir Sharif paused to
translate the cipher one last time before ringing for his turban.
"Ambassador Hawksworth, please forgive my preoccupation these past few
days." Nadir Sharif was bowing, it seemed, unusually low. "We're not
always privileged to entertain our guests as we might wish.
Preparations for today's birthday ceremonies have kept me rushing about
the palace. But please, be seated."
Hawksworth's gaze swept the room. It was cavernous, hung with thick
tapestries on every wall, and lightly perfumed with rose incense.
Before he could reply a bowing servant was proffering a chalice of
Persian wine. As Nadir Sharif watched a glass being poured, his voice
continued, silken.
"Have you found anything here to pass the time? They tell me you've
developed an interest in the sitar. A marvelous instrument really. And
in my garden. Tell me, what do you think of it?"
"I can't decide." Hawksworth felt his caution rising automatically, as
it did any time he found himself alone with Nadir Sharif. "It reminds
me of some of the Tudor gardens connected with English castles, but
still it's different. I like the precise geometry of the walkways and
hedges, and the running water. It's a soothing place to sit and
practice."
"So you find the Persian garden soothing? It is Persian, you know. The
whole idea of a symmetrical garden comes from Persia. Not from this
barbarous wasteland." Nadir Sharif motioned him to a bolster, and
paused until he was seated. "Yes, it's soothing. I agree with you. But
of course, that's one of the purposes of a garden." Nadir Sharif eased
himself against a bolster and accepted a glass of _sharbat_. "It
pleases me that you enjoy my garden. You see, Ambassador, to a man in
the desert, an oasis, a spot of water and green, is like a paradise. So
we sometimes believe we are creating a bit of Allah's Paradise when we
create a garden. You know, the Holy Quran itself tells us that Paradise
will be something like a garden."
"But whose idea was it to build Persian gardens here?"
"When the first Moghul conqueror arrived in India, almost a century
ago, he declared the land here around Agra to be particularly barren
and depressing. So he immediately built a Persian garden. But we must
all do our share, so today there are many gardens, all over India. The
garden, you see, is our tribute to nature."
"But why so geometrical? Your garden uses water, stones, and plants to
create designs that seem almost like the marble floors of your palace."
"Mathematics, Ambassador, principles of law. Islam is the rule of law.
Why do you think we have so many mathematicians? I deliberately
designed this garden with calculated geometric divisions. It provides
me great satisfaction to impose order on the willfulness of nature."
"But why are the stone pathways all elevated above the level of the
garden? In English gardens they're at ground level and lined with
shrubs."
"But surely that's obvious as well. Our gardens are really concealed
waterways, with water constantly flowing from one end to the other. We
must put the walkways above the water." Nadir Sharif waved his hand.
"But all of that is merely mechanics. The garden is where we find
peace. It's where we wait to greet the spring, whose arrival we
celebrate at the Persian New Year."
Nadir Sharif strolled to a window and looked out on the garden. "Spring
in India seems to come up from the south. It's said that buds appear
each day a few _kos _farther north, like a tender army on the march.
But we Persians believe that spring must have a haven if she is to
stay. And that's another reason we build gardens."
"I don't understand."
"There's a famous poem in Persian, by the poet Farrukhi, about gardens
and spring. He once wrote of a place where spring always arrived
feeling lowly and despised, because there was no land for her save
desert, a place of rocks and thistles. But then a rich man--actually the
patron of Farrukhi, whom he was writing to flatter--built a garden for
her and the next year spring came forth from the south and found a home
there." Nadir Sharif smiled. "In fact the poem begins by comparing
spring's original arrivals to that of a bankrupt _feringhi's_, who
appeared with no carpet, no livelihood. But after spring discovered the
garden, she brought from the south turquoise for the willows, rubies
for the rose."
Nadir Sharif smiled. "What do you think of Farrukhi's poem,
Ambassador?"
"What do you mean?"
"Curiosity. I was wondering what are the chances that spring will come
again from the south this year? Did the 'bankrupt _feringhi_ merely
come to see if the garden was ready? Was the first arrival of spring
false, with the real arrival yet to come?"
Hawksworth studied Nadir Sharifs face. "I don't understand what you're
trying to say. But I would like to know if you've spoken to His Majesty
about the _firman_."
"Please believe I mention it daily. I think now he'll soon agree to
terms."
"Then there's nothing yet?" Hawksworth set down the glass of wine. "I
assumed that was why you wanted to speak to me. But you just wanted to
talk about Persian gardens and Persian poets."
"Ambassador, I'm not a man for idle talk. Surely we know each other
better than that." Nadir Sharif turned and banished the servants and
eunuchs with a wave of his hand.
"Tell me. I know you met Prince Jadar once. Give me your honest
opinion. Do you think he's a clever man?"
Hawksworth nodded noncommittally.
"I can assure you, Ambassador, that he's very clever indeed. Even his
staunchest detractors would agree on that. And he's also resourceful.
Not many here are aware he has a full intelligence network of his own.
He does not, of course, have access to the dispatches of the official
court reporters in the provinces, the _wakianavis_, or the dispatches
of His Majesty's confidential reporters, the _harkaras_." Nadir Sharif
paused. "At least we do not think he has access to their reports. But
in a way he doesn't really need them. You see, he has his own system of
reporters, which we know he began creating over two years ago. Spies
whose identity is carefully guarded. We do not know any of their names,
but we do know he calls them his _swanih-nigars_, and they prepare
detailed information on anything in the provinces he asks them to. His
network is extensive and, I understand, quite effective."
Hawksworth suddenly found himself remembering Shirin, the papers in the
observatory, and wondering . . .
"Naturally he has agents along the southern coast. But at times they
can be a bit too careless about the information they gather. For
example, a cipher intended for the prince-- sent by one of Jadar's
secret _swanih-nigars _stationed in Cochin, on the far southern end of
the Malabar Coast--was just intercepted by a Portuguese shipping agent
at the port of Mangalore, down the coast south of Goa. The message was
of great interest to the Portuguese, and they saw fit to forward it to
me. What do you suppose the message contained?"
Hawksworth pulled himself alert.
"I have no idea."
"Tell me, Ambassador. The East India Company does trade on Java, am I
correct?"
"Six years ago the Company established a factory . . . a trading
station . . . at Bantam, the main port on the island."
"Was there a voyage to Bantam this year?"
"The _Discovery_ was bound for Bantam this year, with cargo from
Surat."
"Ambassador, the time for games is over. Your charade has made things
very difficult for those of us who would try to help you." Nadir Sharif
studied Hawksworth deliberately, almost sadly. "It would have been
helpful if you had told me everything sooner. It's embarrassing that I
must receive my information through captured intelligence, when I'm
authorized to serve as your agent. I'm sure it will not surprise you
that the Portuguese Viceroy, His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, is most
disturbed at the news. There will be consequences."
"What are you talking about?"
"The cipher for Jadar. You could have told me sooner of your king's
plans. It would have made all the difference." Nadir Sharif stared
coldly at Hawksworth. "There's no longer any need to pretend you don't
know. The fleet was sighted off the Malabar Coast, by coastal fishing
barks, only three days ago. Four armed frigates, showing English
colors, with a course north by northwest, which means they will stand
to sea and avoid the Portuguese patrols along the coast. It was only by
the slightest chance that they were seen. And then another accident
that the cipher intended for Jadar was intercepted. Otherwise no one
would have known. It was very resourceful of your East India Company,
Ambassador, to have a second fleet sail up our west coast from the
English factory at Java. Unless the Portuguese had intercepted and
decoded Jadar's cipher, they would have been taken completely by
surprise. Now they estimate the English fleet is scheduled to reach
Surat within the month. Unless they are met and engaged . . . which
they most assuredly will be."
The perfumed air of midmorning still seemed to hover above the inner
courtyard of Arangbar's palace as Hawksworth approached its towering
wooden gates. The astonishing news of the English fleet had sent his
spirits soaring, and he had donned his finest doublet and hose for the
occasion. As scimitared eunuchs scrutinized his gilded invitation and
bowed obsequiously for him to pass, he suddenly felt he was walking
through the portals of a Persian dreamland.
For the past two months servants and slaves had toiled through the
crisp autumn nights transforming the courtyard of the Red Fort's inner
palace from an open-air marble arcade into a vast, magnificent
reception room for Arangbar's five-day lunar birthday fete. The
surrounding galleries had been softened with rich carpets, their walls
cloaked in new tapestries; and in the central square a flowering
garden, freshened by interlocking marble fountains, had appeared out of
nothing. In this new garden time had ceased to flow, night and day knew
not their passage one into the other, for the sky itself was now a vast
canopy of imperial red velvet, embroidered in gold and held aloft by
silver-sheathed poles forty feet high and the size of ship's masts. The
horizons of this velvet sky were secured to protruding stone eyelets
along the second-story galleries by multicolored cotton cords the
thickness of cable.
The centerpiece of the upcoming celebration was an enormous balance,
the scale on which Arangbar's yearly weight would be taken. By that
weight his physicians would foretell the future estate of his body, and
if his weight had increased since the previous year, there was
universal rejoicing. But, greater or less, his weight always seemed to
augur well for India. His physicians inevitably found it reason to
forecast another hundred years of his benevolent rule.
Nor was the balance itself suggestive of anything less than a
portentous occasion. The measure of a king demanded kingly measures.
Its weighing pans were two cushioned platforms, gilded and inlaid with
jewels, suspended from each end of a central beam by heavy gold chains
interwoven with silken cords. The beam itself, and its supports, were
carved from rosewood, inlaid with jewels, and plated with gold leaf.
This event of universal joy was never witnessed by more than a few of
Arangbar's closest circle. The first tier of court officials were
permitted in watch, family members, favored officers with rank over
five thousand horse, and a minuscule list of select foreign
ambassadors.
Hawksworth tried to look formal and attentive, but his mind was still
reeling from the news. All the way to the Red Fort he had tried to sort
out the implications.
That crafty bastard Spencer. He well deserves to be Director of the
East India Company. It's perfect. He timed it perfectly.
Why did he decide to send a second voyage? Did they accidentally
rendezvous with the _Discovery_ at Bantam? Or was it no accident? Could
Elkington have ordered them north? Or maybe it's some sort of scheme
with the Hollanders? Who could the Captain-General be?
Spencer, you deceiving whoremaster. You double-crossed Elkington, never
told him about the letter from King James, and now you, or somebody,
has double-crossed me.
Or saved the mission.
There's sure to be a bounty of gifts for Arangbar. If they can make it
around Goa, and avoid the Portugals. . .
"Ambassador, this way." Nadir Sharif was standing near the balance,
motioning him to the front.
"Ambassador, His Majesty is overjoyed at the news of the English fleet.
He has asked that I seat you here, next to me, so I may translate the
Persian for you and allow you to prepare a full report to your king."
The prime minister had changed to formal dress, with a tapestried
turban and cloak, under which were skin-tight, pastel-striped pants. He
wore a necklace of enormous pearls and in the sash at his waist was a
gold-handled _katar _set with emeralds. He was barefoot. "This is an
ancient yearly custom of all the Great Moghuls.''
Hawksworth quickly unbuckled his shoes and tossed them by the edge of
the vast carpet, near the arcade.
"Seat yourself here next to me and I will explain everything to you.
His Majesty thinks the news of your trading fleet is extremely
auspicious, coming as it did on the first day of his birthday
celebration. He wants to return the honor by allowing you to join him
in the royal circle at the wedding of Prince Allaudin and Princess
Layla."
"That's very gracious of His Majesty. And when do you think he's
planning to sign the_ firman _approving English trade?"
"Your _firman _should be little more than a formality now, Ambassador.
He has already accepted in principle the terms you requested, but you
must realize he is quite preoccupied. I think you will have what you
want in a few more weeks. His Majesty has assumed a natural fondness
for you, but I still foresee various encumbrances from our friends in
Goa. Much depends on the fleet, and what happens if the Portuguese
intercept it."