Father Manoel Pinheiro's clean-shaven face was grim and his lips
set tightly against the brisk air as he pushed a path through the
crowded alley, headed toward the riverside palace of Nadir Sharif.
Around him large black cauldrons of frying bread filled the dawn with
the aroma of oil and spice. He had slipped from the mission house at
first light and, clasping his peaked black hat tightly over his
forehead, he had tried to melt inconspicuously among the rattling
bullock carts and noisy street vendors. Now he paused for breath and
watched as a large white cow licked the few grains of rice from the
begging bowl of a dozing leper. The image seemed to capture all the
despair of India, and he suddenly felt himself overwhelmed by the
enormity of the Church's
burden. Before he could move on, a crowd of chanting Hindus jostled him
against a wall as they poured into a small, garishly decorated temple
brimming with poly-colored heathen idols. On either side Hindu fakirs
sat listlessly, long white hair streaming down over their streaked
faces, their limpid eyes devoid of God's understanding. He shook his
head sadly as he made the sign of the cross over them, and found his
heart near bursting.
On every hand, he told himself, the fields are ripe unto harvest, the
flocks wanting a keeper. For every soul in this forgotten land we bring
to God and the Church, a hundred, nay a thousand, are born into eternal
darkness, damned forever. Our task is overwhelming, even with God's
help.
He thought of the Holy Church, the Society of Jesus, and their long
years of disappointment in India. But now, at last, it seemed their
hopes and prayers might be nearing fulfillment. After all the years of
humiliation and ignominy, there seemed a chance, a genuine chance, that
Arangbar, the Great Moghul himself, would at last consent to be
baptized into the Holy Church. After him, all of India would surely
soon follow.
Father Pinheiro crossed himself again, and prayed silently that God
would make him a worthy instrument of His will.
The burden of India was by now a Jesuit legend. It had been taken up
when the first mission came to the court of Akman over three decades
before. And even now the pagan fields of India remained, in many ways,
the greatest challenge of the Society of Jesus and the Holy Church.
India had, it was true, been held in the grip of Portuguese sea power
for many years before the first mission arrived in Agra. But Portuguese
arms and trade had not served the work of the Church. They had served
the greed of Portuguese merchants and the coffers of Portuguese
royalty. The lost souls of India were denied the Grace of the Holy
Church.
Then, in 1540, a priest named Ignatius Loyola, once a nobleman and a
soldier, founded the Society of Jesus, whose dual purpose was to defend
the Holy Church against the Protestant Reformation and begin preaching
the True Faith
to the pagan lands of Asia and the Americas. In 1542 the Society of
Jesus reached Portuguese Goa, on the very shores of India, in the
person of Francis Xavier, a close friend of Ignatius Loyola's from
student days at the University of Paris.
With Goa as base of operations, the society had immediately pushed
farther eastward, reaching Japan and Macao a few short years later.
Paradoxically, it was India itself that had initially eluded their
influence. Finally, in 1573, the Great Akman journeyed south and
encountered the members of the Society of Jesus for the first time. He
was awed by their learning and moral integrity, and soon thereafter he
posted an envoy to Goa requesting that a Jesuit mission be sent to his
court. Three Jesuit fathers traveled to Fatehpur Sekri.
The Jesuits' hopes soared when they were immediately invited to debate
the orthodox Islamic mullahs at Akman's court. The leader of the
mission, a soft-spoken Italian father with encyclopedic learning, knew
the Quran well in translation and easily refuted the mullahs'
absolutist arguments--to the obvious delight of Akman. It was only after
several months at Fatehpur Sekri that the three learned fathers began
to suspect that Akman's real purpose in inviting them was to have on
hand skilled debaters for entertainment.
Akman may have had scant patience with Islam, but it had grown obvious
he had no desire to become a Christian either. He was an intellectual
who amused himself by questioning the ideas and teachings of all
faiths, with the inevitable result that he always found something in
each to affront his own reason. He was, in fact, beginning to form the
notion that he himself was as great a leader as any of the spiritual
teachers he had heard about, and accordingly should simply declare
himself an object of worship. After a decade the three Jesuits finally
conceded their first mission was a failure and abjectly returned to
Goa.
Almost a decade later, in 1590, Akman again requested that Jesuit
fathers be sent to his court. Once more a mission was sent, and once
more its members eventually concluded Akman had no real intention of
encouraging Christianity in India. The second mission was also
abandoned.
There remained some, however, in Goa and in Rome, who believed the
Great Moghul Akman still could be converted. Furthermore, as the
Protestant countries began to venture into the Indies, the political
usefulness of having Portuguese priests near the ruler of India became
increasingly obvious. Thus, in 1595, a third mission was sent to
Akman's court. Father Pinheiro remembered well their instructions upon
departing Goa. They would convert Akman if they could; but equally
important now, they would ensure that Portuguese trading interests were
protected.
The Jesuit fathers drew close to Akman, became valued advisers, and
found themselves being consulted on questions ranging from whether
Jesus was the Son of God or merely a Prophet, to the advisability of
smoking tobacco. Still, the only lasting achievement of the mission was
to extract from Akman a _firman _granting Jesuits the right to free
exercise of the Catholic religion. They wanted his soul, and through it
the soul of India, but the most they ever attained was his protection.
He died a royal skeptic, but a sovereign whose religious tolerance
shocked the dogmatic sixteenth-century world.
Father Pinheiro paused to study the outline of the Red Fort against the
morning sky and listened to the _azan _call to Islamic prayer sounding
from a nearby mosque. He smiled to think that the schism between the
rule of Arangbar and the rule of Islam might soon be complete. Like
Akman, Arangbar had never bothered to hide his distaste for the mullahs
who flooded his court. He collected Italian paintings of the Virgin for
his palace, even scandalizing the mullahs by hanging one in the _Diwan-
i-Am_, and whenever one of the Jesuit fathers journeyed to Goa, there
was always a request for more Christian art. True the Moghul's
understanding of blasphemy was erratic, as evidenced by a recent
evening in the _Diwan-i-Khas _when, drunk and roaring with laughter,
Arangbar had set a wager with the Jesuits on how long he could stand
with his arms outstretched as a cross. But then he had built a church
for the mission, and also provided them a house, which he now visited
ever more frequently to secretly indulge his passion for forbidden
pork.
A scant two months before, Arangbar had taken an action that sent the
mission's hopes soaring. He had summoned the Jesuit fathers to baptize
two of his young nephews, ordering the boys to become Christians. The
mullahs had been outraged, immediately spreading the pernicious rumor
he had done so merely to better remove them from the line of
succession. In Goa, however, the mission was roundly congratulated on
nearing its goal. If Arangbar became a Christian, many in his court and
perhaps eventually all of India would someday follow.
This had all been before the arrival of the English heretic,
Hawksworth. At the very moment when Arangbar's mind seemed within their
grasp, there had now emerged the specter that all their work might be
undone. Arangbar had treated the Englishman as though he were qualified
to speak on theological matters and had even questioned him about the
most Holy Sacrament, when the Church's doctrine regarding this Mystery
had already been fully expounded to him by Father Sarmento himself.
Arangbar had listened with seeming interest while the Englishman
proceeded to tell him much that was contrary to the Truth and to Church
teaching. When asked point blank, the Englishman had even denied that
His Holiness, the pope, should be acknowledged head of the Universal
Church, going on to characterize His Holiness' political concerns in
almost scatological terms. Father Sarmento, normally the most
forbearing of priests, was nearing despair.
Most disturbing of all, Arangbar had only last week asked the
Englishman by what means the Portuguese fortress at the northern port
of Diu could be recaptured by India. The Englishman had confided that
he believed a blockade by a dozen English frigates, supported by an
Indian land army of no more than twenty thousand, could force the
Portuguese garrison to capitulate from hunger!
Clearly Arangbar was growing eccentric. The English heretic had
beguiled him and was near to becoming a serious detriment to Portuguese
interests. To make matters worse, there was the latest dispatch from
Goa, which had arrived only the previous evening. Father Pinheiro had
studied it well into the night, and finally concluded that the time had
come to stop the Englishman. He also concluded it was time to make this
unmistakably clear to Nadir Sharif. As the situation continued to
deteriorate, only the influence of Nadir Sharif could still neutralize
the Englishman.
Father Pinheiro moved on through the jostling street, occasionally
swabbing his brow. And as he looked about him, he began to dream of the
day there would be a Christian India. It would be the society's
greatest triumph. What would it be like? What would Arangbar do to
silence the heretical mullahs? Would the time come when India, like
Europe, would require an Inquisition to purify the sovereignty of the
Church?
One thing was certain. With a Catholic monarch in India, there would be
no further English trade, no Dutch trade, no Protestant trade. The
declining fortunes of Portuguese commerce at Goa, the Protestant
challenge to Portuguese supremacy in the Indies, would both be
permanently reversed in a single stroke.
The thought heartened him as he looked up to see the sandstone turrets
of Nadir Sharif's palace gleaming in the morning sun.
"Father, it is always a pleasure to see you." Nadir Sharif bowed
lightly and indicated a bolster. He did not order refreshments from the
servants. "No matter what the hour."
"I realize the time is early. I wanted to find you at home. And to come
here when there were the fewest possible eyes on the street." Pinheiro
paused and then decided to sit. He was perspiring heavily from the
walk, even though the real heat of the day lay hours ahead.
Nadir Sharif flinched at the Jesuit's school-book Persian and examined
him with ill-concealed disdain, knowing word of his visit surely had
already found the ears of the queen.
"Then I should ask the occasion for this unexpected pleasure." Nadir
Sharif seated himself and discreetly examined the Jesuit's soiled black
habit.
"The English trading fleet, Excellency. The news is most disturbing. I
received a pigeon last evening from His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes.
The armada he dispatched along the coast to sweep for the English fleet
returned three days ago, finding nothing. The English may have eluded
us. He has now ordered the armada to sail north from Goa, into the bay,
but by now the English fleet could be nearing Surat, or perhaps they
have veered north to the port of Cambay. His Excellency fears that they
may possibly escape our patrols entirely and make landfall. He has
asked me to inform you privately that the _firman _for English trade
must be delayed at all costs, until the English fleet can be sighted
and engaged."
"I have made every effort. The Viceroy knows that." Nadir Sharif
casually adjusted the jewel on his turban. "It has been stopped so
far."
"But if the fleet lands? And if the heretic English king has sent new
gifts for His Majesty?" Pinheiro tried to maintain his dignity as he
nervously wiped his face with the black fold of a sleeve.
"If the English do make landfall, and dispatch more gifts for His
Majesty, I fear no power in Agra can stop him from signing the
_firman_.'' Nadir Sharifs face assumed an expression of conciliatory
resignation. "The English will undoubtedly make the trading _firman_ a
condition of further presents."
"You know that is unacceptable, Excellency." Pinheiro's eyes narrowed.
"The mission cannot allow it. You know that as well as I."
"Forgive me, but I've always understood your mission here was not to
concern itself with trade."
"The Holy Church is not engaged in trade, Excellency. But our position
here is dependent, as you are well aware, on the fortunes of Goa. The
two are entwined, as are all secular and spiritual aspects of life.
Whatever disturbs one must inevitably affect the other. It cannot be
otherwise."
"Obviously." Nadir Sharif stroked the tip of his moustache a moment in
thought. "So what would you have me do? The English _feringhi _cannot
be harmed. He drinks every evening with His Majesty."
"There are other ways to negate the heretic's influence. Perhaps the
Englishman's . . . situation with His Majesty can be rendered less
intimate. Perhaps he could be removed from favor. If only for a time."
"So you have come to ask me to work miracles for you, when you do
nothing for yourself." Nadir Sharif rose and strolled to a latticework
window. He studied the garden for a moment, then spoke without turning.
"Have you advised His Majesty in explicit terms of the Viceroy's
displeasure with the English intrusion into our . . . into Portuguese
waters?"
"It has been made known. Many times."
"But have you suggested the consequences?" Nadir Sharif turned and
gazed past Pinheiro, his eyes playing on the scalloped marble arch of
the entryway.
"The consequences are obvious. The warships at Goa are capable of
terminating all trade in the Indian Ocean if His Excellency so
pleases."
"Then you should merely engage the English." Nadir Sharif consciously
deleted the irony from his voice.
"That is an entirely separate matter. The English frigates are of a new
design, very swift. They may possibly have eluded us for a time."
Pinheiro's voice hardened. "But do not doubt our galleons are swifter
than any of the trading vessels of His Majesty's fleet. India's own Red
Sea trade continues only at the Viceroy's discretion."
"That is true enough. But are you prepared to demonstrate your . . .
displeasure." Nadir Sharif revolved back to the window. "I do not think
His Majesty actually believes the Viceroy would ever take hostile
action."
"What are you suggesting?" Pinheiro's voice betrayed momentary
disbelief.
"Nothing that you have not already brought to His Majesty's attention.
But possibly he does not believe you have the conviction, or the
strength, to carry it through. The English _feringhi _constantly brags
to him of English superiority at sea, hinting that his king will soon
drive Portugal from the Indian Ocean. I've heard it so often myself I
confess I'm near to believing him too."
"I can assure you that the protection, and control, of India's ports
will always remain in Portuguese hands."
"Then you would still have me believe you have the power to impound
Indian shipping, even a vessel owned by His Majesty, thereby exposing
the English as helpless to prevent it?" Nadir Sharif seemed absorbed in
the garden, his hands clasped easily behind him in perfect repose.
"Of course." Pinheiro stood dazed at the implications of Nadir Sharifs
words. He paused for a moment, digesting them. "Do I understand you to
be suggesting the Viceroy take hostile action against one of His
Majesty's own trading ships?"
"You have contested the Englishman with words, and he seems to be
winning." Nadir Sharif turned and examined Pinheiro. "Your Viceroy is
undoubtedly aware that Her Majesty, Queen Janahara, is equally
disturbed by the Englishman. She too is concerned with the possible
effects on her . . . trading arrangements if the English gain undue
influence."
"Would she be willing to speak to His Majesty?"
"Again you talk merely of words. What have they gained you?"
"Father Sarmento would never consent to an overt action. He would be
too fearful of the possible consequences to the mission."
"Bold measures are for bold men. I think His Excellency, Miguel
Vaijantes, understands boldness. And His Majesty understands boldness
better than anyone." Nadir Sharif paused. "It may be of interest to His
Excellency to know that His Majesty currently has a vessel en route
from the Red Sea, with cargo owned by the mother of His Majesty, the
dowager Maryam Zamani. It is due to make landfall within the week, if
it has managed to hold its schedule. The vessel's safety is, quite
naturally, of utmost concern to His Majesty . . ."
"I think I understand." Father Pinheiro again swabbed the moisture from
his brow. "But Father Sarmento . . ."
"What possible concern could Father Sarmento have with decisions made
by His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes? He is the Viceroy." Nadir Sharif
nodded toward a pudgy eunuch hovering at the doorway, who immediately
entered with a tray of betel leaves, signaling that the meeting was
adjourned.
"His Excellency will undoubtedly be most appreciative of your
thoughts." Pinheiro paused. "Still, wouldn't it be prudent to advise
Her Majesty, lest she mistake our Viceroy's intentions?"
"I will attend to it." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "You must be aware,
however, that if His Majesty chooses to respond irresponsibly, I will
know nothing about any action that may be taken. The Viceroy must
weather his own seas."
"Naturally." Pinheiro bowed. "You have always been a friend. I thank
you, and bless you in God's name."
"Your thanks are sufficient." Nadir Sharif smiled again and watched as
the Jesuit was led through the scalloped doorway by the waiting eunuch.
Only when he turned back to the window did he realize his palms were
drenched with perspiration.
Arangbar moved groggily through the arched corridor carrying a fresh
silver cup of wine and quietly humming the motif of his favorite
Hindustani raga. His afternoon nap in the _zenana _had been fitful,
unusually so, and when he finally admitted to himself why, he had
dismissed the two young women who waited to pleasure him, retrieved his
jeweled turban, and waved aside the attending eunuchs. He had announced
he wanted to stroll among the fruit trees in the courtyard of the
Anguri Bagh, which lay down the marble steps from the Khas Mahal, the
breezy upper pavilion of the _zenana_. But when he reached the trees,
he had turned and slipped through his private doorway leading to the
women's apartments in the lower level of the fort.
The _zenana _was quiet, even the eunuchs were dozing, and no one
noticed when he passed along the shadowed afternoon corridor toward the
circular staircase leading to the lower apartments. As he began to
descend the curved stone steps, he felt his legs momentarily grow
unsteady, and he paused to rest against the hard polished wall,
tightening his light brocade cloak against the cooler air and taking a
short sip of wine for warmth. Then he continued on, carefully feeling
for each step in the dim light of the overhead oil lamps.
He emerged on the next level and stopped to catch his breath on the
balcony that opened out over the Jamuna. This was the level where he
had built private apartments for his favorite women, and behind him was
the large room, with a painted cupola ceiling high above a large rose-
shaped marble fountain, which he had granted to one of his Hindu wives.
(Now he could no longer recall precisely who she was; she had reached
thirty some time past and he had not summoned her to his couch in many
years.) Since she was a devout Hindu, he had ordered it decorated with
brilliantly colored scenes from the Ramayana. The room itself was
cooled by a high waterfall in the rear that murmured down an inclined
and striated marble slab. Stairways on either side of the room curved
around to an overhead balcony, directly above where he now stood, which
was the post where eunuchs waited when the women came to cool
themselves by the fountain.
The balcony where he now stood jutted out from the fort, supported by
thick sandstone columns, and from his position he could look along the
side of the fort and see the Jasmine Tower of Queen Janahara. When he
realized he also could be seen, he instinctively stepped back into the
cool corridor.
The women were inside their apartments, asleep, and the corridor empty
as he began to descend the circular stairs leading to the next level
below, the quarters for eunuchs and female servants. As he rounded the
last curve of the stair and emerged into the light, three eunuchs
stared up in shock from their game of cards. It vaguely registered that
they probably were gambling, which he had strictly prohibited in the
_zenana_, but he decided to ignore it this afternoon.
The circular pasteboard cards of the eunuchs' scattered across the
stone floor as they hurried to _teslim_. He paused to
drink again from the cup and absently studied the painted faces on the
cards dropped by the eunuch nearest him. It was not a bad hand. Lying
on the marble were four high cards from the _bishbar_, powerful, suits--
the lord of horses, the king of elephants, the king of infantry, and
the throned _wazir _of the fort--and three from the _kambar_, weaker,
suits--the king of snakes, the king of divinities, and the throned
queen. He stared for a moment at the king of elephants, the suit he
always preferred to play, and wondered at the happenstance that the
king had fallen beneath the queen, whose face covered his golden crown.
He shrugged it away as coincidence and turned toward the stairs leading
to the next lower level.
Two more levels remained.
The air was increasingly musty now, noticeably smoky from the lamps,
and he hurried on, reaching the next landing without stopping. The
windows on this level had shrunk to only a few hand spans, and now they
were secured with heavy stone latticework. The eunuchs were arguing at
the other end of the corridor and failed even to notice him. He told
himself to try to remember this, and drank again as he paused to listen
to the metrical splash of the Jamuna lapping against the outer wall.
Then he stepped quietly down the last flight of stairs.
The final level. As he emerged into the corridor, two guarding eunuchs
who had been dozing leaped to their feet and drew swords before
recognizing him. Both fell on their face in _teslim_, their turbans
tumbling across the stone floor.
Arangbar said nothing, merely pointed toward a doorway at the end of
the corridor. The startled eunuchs strained against their fat as they
lifted torches from the walls and then turned officiously to lead the
way. As they walked, Arangbar paused to stare through an arched doorway
leading into a large domed room off the side of the hall. A dozen
eunuchs were inside, some holding torches while others laced a white
cotton rope through a wooden pulley attached to the lower side of a
heavy wooden beam that spanned the room, approximately ten feet above
the floor.