CHAPTER TEN
Brian Hawksworth stepped lightly off the prow of the barge as it eased into the riverbank and worked his way through the knee-deep tidal mud onto the sandy shore. Even here, across the harbor, the water still stank of the sewers of Surat. Then he turned and surveyed the sprawling city, back across the broad estuary, astonished that they could have crossed the harbor so easily on nothing more substantial than a wide raft of boards lashed with rope, what the Indians called a bark.
Ahead, waiting on the shore, was a line of loaded bullock carts—conveyances with two wooden wheels higher than a man's head, a flat bed some six feet wide, and a heavy bamboo pole for a tongue—each yoked to two tall, humpbacked gray cattle with conspicuous ribs. The carts stretched down the muddy road that emerged from the tangle of coastal scrub and were piled to overflowing with rolls of English wool cloth. The turbaned drivers now shouted Hindi obscenities as they walked alongside and lashed the sullen cattle into place for unloading. As Hawksworth watched, the porters who had ridden with him splashed their way toward the shore and began driving stakes to secure the mooring lines of the bark. Wool would be ferried across the harbor and cotton brought back with each trip.
Then Hawksworth caught sight of George Elkington's ragged hat bobbing in the midday sunshine as the Chief Merchant and his aide, Humphrey Spencer, climbed down from their two-wheeled Indian coach, drawn by two white oxen, which had been loaned by Shahbandar. Farther down the line of carts was a detail of English seamen, led by red-haired Mackintosh, and all carrying muskets, who had walked the fifteen-mile, two-day trek to guard the cargo.
The trading season was well underway, and over the past three weeks a motley assemblage of cargo vessels from the length of the Indian Ocean had appeared downriver at the bar to commence unlading. Foreign traders normally transported goods inland to Surat on the barks that plied the Tapti between the port and the shallow bar at the river mouth. But these vessels had arrived at the bar with the blessings of Portugal, for they all had acquired a Portuguese license and paid duty on their cargo at some Portuguese-controlled tax point.
After evaluating the risk of exposing his English frigates at the bar—where maneuverability was limited and the possibility of Portuguese surprise great—Brian Hawksworth had elected to unlade directly onshore from their protected anchorage north of the river mouth, the cove called Swalley, then haul the goods overland to the banks of the Tapti opposite Surat. There would be no risk of Portuguese interference inland and, once across from the port, the goods could be easily barged to the maidan.
He turned again toward the river and examined the town of Surat from his new vantage. It was easy to see now why this location had been chosen for the port, for here the river curved and widened, creating a natural, protected harbor. The most conspicuous landmarks visible from across the harbor were three stone villas along the riverfront, all owned by the Shahbandar, and the square stone fort that stood on the downriver side of the harbor, its heavy ordnance trained perpetually on the water. The fort was surrounded by a moat on three sides and on the fourth by the river. Entry could only be gained through a gate on the riverside, or a drawbridge that connected its entrance to the open maidan, the square where traders congregated.
The square had swarmed with merchants and brokers as they passed through, and he had watched as two brokers stood together near its center—one from Ahmedabad, up-country, and the other from Surat—arguing loudly over the price and quality of a pile of indigo. The porters explained that the Surat broker was accusing the other of mixing sand with the indigo to increase its weight, then disguising his deception by also adding enough oil that the indigo would still float on water, the test used to establish purity of the dried extract of the indigo leaf. As the argument grew more vigorous, Hawksworth noticed the men join hands beneath a piece of cloth, where they began negotiating the actual price by means of their fingers, a figure undoubtedly little related to the movement of their tongues.
Now that the high trading season of September-January had begun, Surat's narrow streets were one loud bazaar, swollen to almost two hundred thousand grasping traders, bargaining seamen, hawking merchants. A dozen languages stirred the air as a motley mélange of up-country Indian traders, Arabs, Jains, Parsis, Persians, Jews, Egyptians, Portuguese, and returning Muslim pilgrims—every nationality known to the Indian Ocean—swaggered through the garbage-sodden mud paths called streets.
Hawksworth gazed back at the city and reflected over the curious events of the past three weeks. The English had, inexplicably, been received first with open hostility, and then with suspiciously cordial deference—first by the governor, and afterward by the Shahbandar. Something is very wrong, he told himself. A contest of wills is underway between the Shahbandar, Mirza Nuruddin, and the governor, Mukarrab Khan. And so far, Mukarrab Khan seems to be winning. Or is he?
Six days before, the governor had suddenly reversed his policy of noninterference in port affairs and authorized a license for the English to sell their cargo in Surat and buy Indian goods, something the Shahbandar had found one excuse after another to delay. However, Mukarrab Khan had delivered this license directly to the English, rather than forwarding it to the Shahbandar through normal channels, leaving Brian Hawksworth the unpleasant responsibility of presenting this document to the Shahbandar in person. But the meeting turned out to be nothing like Hawksworth had expected.
"Once more you astound me, Captain." The close, torch-lit chamber of the customs house office had fallen expectantly silent as the Shahbandar drew slowly on his hookah and squinted with his opaque, glassy eyes at the black seal of Mukarrab Khan affixed to the top of the page. Hawksworth had waited for a glimmer of anger at this insulting breach of port protocol—which surely was Mukarrab Khan's reason for insisting the license be delivered by the English Captain-General. But the Shahbandar's eyes never lost their noncommittal squint. Instead he had turned to Hawksworth with a cordial smile. "Your refusal to negotiate seems to have worked remarkable dispatch with His Excellency's officials. I can't recall ever seeing them act this quickly."
Hawksworth had been amazed. How could Mirza Nuruddin possibly know the terms he had demanded of the governor: produce a license for trade within ten days or the two English frigates would weigh anchor and sail; and accept English sovereigns at bullion value rather than the prevailing discount rate of 4 1/2 percent required to circumvent "minting time," the weeks "required" by the Shahbandar's minters to melt down foreign coin and re-mint it as Indian rupees.
No one could have been more surprised than Brian Hawksworth when Mukarrab Khan had immediately conceded the English terms and approved the license—valid for sixty days—to land goods, and to buy and sell. Why had the governor agreed so readily, overriding the Shahbandar's dawdling clerks?
"Naturally you'll need an officer here to schedule the river barks." The Shahbandar's voice was even, but Hawksworth thought he sensed an air of tension suddenly grip the room. "Normally barks are reserved weeks in advance now during the high season, but we can always accommodate friends of Mukarrab Khan."
It was then that Hawksworth had told the Shahbandar he would not be bringing cargo up the river, that instead it would be transported overland from their protected anchorage using bullock carts arranged for by Mukarrab Khan.
"The cove you call Swalley is several leagues up the coast, Captain. Foreign cargo has never before been unladed there, nor has it ever been brought overland as you propose." He had seemed genuinely disturbed. "I suggest it's both irregular and unworkable."
"I think you understand why we have to unlade from the cove. The decision is made." Hawksworth tried to keep his voice as firm as that of Mirza Nuruddin. "We'll unload the bullock carts just across the river from the port here, and we'll only need a bark to ferry goods across the harbor."
"As you wish. I'll arrange to have one at your disposal." The Shahbandar drew pensively on the hookah, ejecting coils of smoke into the already dense air of the chamber, and examined Hawksworth.
Then he continued. "I understand your frigates are some five hundred tons each. Full unlading will require at least three weeks, perhaps four. Is that a reasonable estimate?"
"We'll arrange the scheduling. Why do you ask?"
"Merely for information, Captain." Again the Shahbandar flashed his empty smile. Then he bowed as lightly as protocol would admit and called for a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying the meeting was ended. As Hawksworth took one, he marveled that he had so quickly acquired a taste for their strange alkaline sweetness. Then he looked again at Mirza Nuruddin's impassive eyes.
Damn him. Does he know what the Portugals were planning? And was he hoping we'd be caught unlading in the shallows at the river mouth? He knows I've just spoiled their plans.
As he had passed back through the customs shed headed toward the maidan and sunshine, Hawksworth could feel the hostile stares. And he knew the reason.
The new English visitors had already made an unforgettable impression on the town of Surat. The merchants George Elkington and Humphrey Spencer had been given accommodations by a Portuguese-speaking Muslim, whom Spencer had immediately outraged by demanding they be served pork. The other men had been temporarily lodged in a vacant house owned by an indigo broker. After the hard-drinking English seamen had disrupted orderly proceedings in three separate brothels, and been banned in turn by each, the Shahbandar had ordered five nautch girls sent to them at the house. But with fewer women than men, a fight inevitably had ensued, with thorough demolition of the plaster walls and shutters.
Worst of all, bosun's mate John Garway had gone on a drunken spree in the streets and, in a flourish of exuberance, severed the tail of a bullock calf—an animal sacred to the Hindus—with his seaman's knife. A riot in the Hindu quarter had erupted soon after, forcing Mukarrab Khan to remove the English seamen outside the town walls, in tents erected by the "tank," the city reservoir.
Yes, Hawksworth sighed, it'll be a long time before India forgets her first taste of the English.
The barge bobbed lightly as two Indian porters, knee-deep in the mud, hoisted the first roll of woolen cloth onto the planking. This begins the final leg of the India voyage, Hawksworth thought to himself. And this has been the easiest part of all.
Almost too easy.
Pox on it, believe in your luck for a change. The voyage will post a fortune in pepper. Lancaster was knighted for little more than bringing home his vessels. He reached Java, but he found no trade. He'd have sailed home a pauper if he hadn't ambushed a rich Portuguese galleon in the harbor at Sumatra.
How many weeks to a knighthood? Three? Four? No, we'll make it in less. We'll man every watch. Woolens aland, cotton out. I'll have the frigates laded, stores on board—we can buy cattle and sheep from villages up the coast—and all repairs completed in two weeks. I'll have both frigates in open seas inside a fortnight, where not a Portugal bottom afloat can touch us.
And if permission for the trip to Agra comes, I'll be out of Surat too.
If I live that long.
He reached into his belt and drew out a long Portuguese stiletto. An elaborate cross was etched into the blade, and the handle was silver, with a ram's head at the butt. The ram's eyes were two small rubies. He had been carrying it for two days, and he reflected again on what had happened, still puzzling.
He had returned to the observatory the next morning after he had met Shirin, and this time he brought his lute. But she did not come. That morning, or the morning after, or the morning after. Finally he swallowed his disappointment and concluded he would not see her again. Then it was he had gone to work cleaning away the moss and accumulated mud from the stone instruments. Parts of some seemed to be missing, and he had searched the hut for these without success. All he had found was a hand-held astrolabe, an instrument used to take the altitude of the sun. But he also found tables, piles of handwritten tables, that seemed to hold the key to the use of the instruments. His hopes had soared. It seemed possible, just possible, that buried somewhere in the hut was the key to the greatest mystery of all time—how to determine longitude at sea.
Hawksworth had often pondered the difficulties of navigation in the deep ocean, where only the sun and stars were guides. They were the primary determent to England's new ambition to explore the globe, for English navigators were still far less experienced than those of the Spanish and Portuguese.
The problem seemed overwhelming. Since the great earth was curved, no line on its surface was straight, and once at sea there was absolutely no way to determine exactly where you were, which way you were going, or how fast.
The least uncertain measurement was probably latitude, a ship's location north or south of the equator. In the northern hemisphere the height of the polestar was a reasonably accurate determinant of latitude, although it was a full three degrees distant from the northernmost point in the sky. Another measure of latitude was the height of the sun at midday, corrected for the specific day of the year. The problem lay in how to measure either of these elevations accurately.
A hundred years before, the Portuguese had come across an ingenious Arab device for telling the elevation of the sun. It consisted of a board with a knotted length of string run through the middle. If a mariner held the board vertically and sighted the horizon at one end and some object in the sky at the other, the length of the string between the board and his eye could be used to calculate the elevation of the object. In a short time a version appeared in Europe—with a second board replacing the string—called the cross-staff.
However, since locating both the horizon and a star was almost impossible at any time except dawn or dusk, this device worked best for sighting the sun—save that it required staring into the disc of the sun to find its exact center. Also, the cross-staff could not be used when the sun was high in the sky, which was the case in equatorial waters. Another version of the cross-staff was the astrolabe, a round brass dial etched with degree markings and provided with a movable sight that permitted taking the elevation of the sun by its shadow. But even with the astrolabe there was the problem of catching the sun precisely at midday. And on a rolling ship the error in reading it could easily be four degrees.
For longitude, a ship's location east or west on the globe, there were no fixed references at all; but as a mariner traveled east or west, the sun would come up somewhat earlier or later each day, and precisely how much earlier or later could be used to compute how far he had gone. Therefore, calculating longitude depended solely on keeping time extremely accurately—something completely impossible. The best timekeeping device available was the hourglass or "sandglass," invented somewhere in the western Mediterranean in the eleventh or twelfth century. Sandglass makers never achieved real accuracy or consistency, and careful mariners always used several at once, hoping to average out variations. But on a long voyage seamen soon totally lost track of absolute time.
Since they were unable to determine a ship's location from the skies, mariners also tried to compute it from a vessel's speed and direction. Speed was estimated by throwing a log with a knotted rope attached overboard and timing the rate at which the knots in the rope played out—using a sandglass. Margins of error in computing speed were usually substantial. Direction, too, was never known completely accurately. A compass pointed to magnetic north, not true north, and the difference between these seemed to vary unaccountably at different locations on the globe. Some thought it had to do with the lodestone used to magnetize the needle, and others, like the Grand Pilot of the king of Spain, maintained seamen were merely lying to cover their own errors.
For it all, however, longitude was the most vital unknown. Many attempts had been made to find a way to fix longitude, but nothing ever worked. Seamen found the only real solution to the problem was "latitude sailing," a time-consuming and expensive procedure whereby a captain would sail north or south to the approximate latitude of his destination and then sail due east or west, rather than trying to sail on the diagonal. King Philip III of Spain had
offered a fortune to the first man who discovered how to tell longitude at sea.
Hawksworth spent days poring through the piles of tables, many of which were strewn about the floor of the room and damaged from mildew and rot. Next he carefully copied the symbols off the walls of the circular building and matched these with those on several of the charts. Were these the names of the major stars, or constellations of the zodiac, or . . . what? The number was twenty-eight.
And then it came to him: they were the daily stations of the moon.
As he continued to sift through the documents, he realized that the scholar who wrote them had predicted eclipses of the moon for many years in advance. Then he found a book, obviously old, with charts that seemed to provide geometric corrections for the distortion caused by the atmosphere when sighting stars near the horizon, something that always had been troublesome for navigators.
He also found other writings. New. Some appeared to be verses, and others, tables of names and numbers. Sums of money were written next to some of the names. But none of it meant anything without the Persian, which he could not read. And Shirin had never returned to the observatory, at least not when he was there.
Until two days ago.
At the observatory that morning the sky had been a perfect ice blue, the garden and orchard still, the air dry and exhilarating. No workmen were splashing in the moat beyond the wall that day. Only the buzz of gnats intruded on the silence. He had brought a bottle of dry Persian wine to make the work go faster, finding he was growing accustomed to its taste. And he had brought his lute, as always, in hope Shirin would come again.
He was in the stone hut, cleaning and sorting pages of manuscript, when she appeared silently in the doorway. He looked up and felt a sudden rush in his chest.
"Have you uncovered all of Jamshid Beg's secrets?" Her voice was lilting, but with a trace of unease. "I've found out that was our famous astronomer's name. He was originally from Samarkand."
"I think I'm beginning to understand some of the tables." Hawksworth kept his tone matter-of-fact. "He should have been a navigator. He could have been a fellow at Trinity House."
"What is that?"
"It's a guild in England. Where navigators are trained."
She laughed. "I think he preferred a world made only of numbers." Her laugh was gone as quickly as it had come, and she moved toward him with a vaguely troubled look. "What have you found?"
"A lot of things. Take a look at this drawing." Hawksworth tried to remain nonchalant as he moved the lamp back to the table from where he had placed it on the floor. "He identified what we call parallax, the slight circular motion of the moon throughout the day caused by the fact it's not sighted from the center of the earth, but from a spot on its surface that moves as the earth rotates. Now if he could measure that accurately enough with these instruments . . ."
Shirin waved her hand and laughed again. "If you understand all this, why not just take the papers back to the palace and work with them there?" She was in the room now, her olive cheeks exquisitely shadowed by the partially open door, where flickering shadows played lightly through the brilliant sunshine. "Today I'd rather hear you play your English instrument."
"With pleasure. I've been trying to learn an Indian raga." He kept his voice even and moved himself deftly between Shirin and the doorway, blocking her exit. "But it sounds wrong on the lute. When I get to Agra I'm thinking I'll have a sitar made . . ."
He reached as though for the lute, then swung his hand upward and clapped it over Shirin's mouth. Before she could move he shoved her against the wall beside the door and stretched with his other hand to seize the heavy brass astrolabe that rested on a stand by the table. He caught a look of pure terror in her eyes, and for a moment he thought she might scream. He pressed her harder against the wall to seal her mouth, and as the shaft of light from the doorway dimmed momentarily he stepped forward and swung the brass astrolabe upward.
There was a soft sound of impact, followed by a choked groan and the clatter of metal against the wooden door. He drew back the astrolabe, now with a trace of blood along its sharp edge and the remains of a tooth wedged between its discs. Then he looked out to see a dark-skinned Indian man in a loincloth rolling himself across the top of the garden wall. A faint splash followed, as he dropped into the moat.
When Hawksworth released Shirin and placed the astrolabe back on its stand, he caught the glint of sunshine off a stiletto lying in the doorway. He bent down to retrieve it and suddenly she was next to him, holding his arm and staring at the place where the man had scaled the wall.
"He was a Sudra, a low caste." She looked at the stiletto in Hawksworth's hand, and her voice turned to scorn. "It's Portuguese. Only the Portuguese would hire someone like that, instead of a Rajput." Then she laughed nervously. "If they'd hired a Rajput, someone would be dead now. Hire a Sudra and you get a Sudra's work."
"Who was it?"
"Who knows? The horse bazaar is full of men who would kill for ten rupees." She pointed toward the wall. "Do you see that piece of cloth? There on the old spike. I think it's a piece of his dhoti. Would you get it for me?"
After Hawksworth had retrieved the shred of cotton loincloth, brown from a hundred washings in the river, she had taken it from him without a word.
"What will you do with it?"
"Don't." She touched a finger to his lips. "These are things it's best not to ask." Then she tucked the brown scrap into the silken sash at her waist and moved toward the door. "And it would be better if you forgot about today."
Hawksworth watched her for a second, then seized her arm and turned her facing him. "I may not know what's going on. But, by Jesus, I'll know before you leave. And you can start by telling me why you come here."
She stared back at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. There was something in them he had never seen before, almost admiration. Then she caught herself and drew back, dropping into a chair. "Very well. Perhaps you do deserve to know." She slipped the translucent scarf from her hair and tossed it across the table. "Why don't you open the wine you brought? I'll not tell you everything, because you shouldn't want me to, but I'll tell you what's important for you."
Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, his hand still trembling.
"Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip.
"I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufi rascal."
"Is that what he said? Good. That only confirms once again what I think of His Excellency." She laughed with contempt. "Samad is a great poet. He's perhaps the last great Persian writer, in the tradition of Omar Khayyam. He has favored me by allowing me to be one of his disciples."
"So you come here to write poems?"
"When I feel something I want to say."
"But I've also found lists of names here, and numbers."
"I told you I can't tell you everything." Shirin's look darkened momentarily as she drank again lightly from the cup, then settled it on the table. He found himself watching her face, drawn to her by something he could not fully understand. "But I can tell you this. There's someone in India who will one day rid us of the infidel Portuguese. Do you know of Prince Jadar?"
"He's the son of the Moghul. I'm guessing he'll probably succeed one day."
"He should. If he's not betrayed. Things are very unsettled in Agra. He has many enemies there." She paused. "He has enemies here."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Then you should. Because what happens in Agra will affect everyone. Even you."
"But what does Agra politics have to do with me? The knife was Portuguese."
"To understand what's happening, you should first know about Akman, the one we remember now as the Great Moghul. He was the father of Arangbar, the Moghul now. I was only a small girl when Akman died, but I still remember my sadness, my feeling the universe would collapse. We worshiped him almost. It's not talked about now, but the truth is Akman didn't real
ly want Arangbar to succeed him, nobody did. But he had no choice. In fact, when Akman died, Arangbar's eldest son started a rebellion to deny him the throne, but that son's troops betrayed him, and after they surrendered Arangbar blinded him in punishment. Khusrav, his own son. Although Prince Jadar was still only a young boy then, we all thought after that he would be Moghul himself one day. But that was before the Persians came to power in Agra."
"But aren't you Persian yourself?"
"I was born in India, but yes, I have the great fortune to be of Persian blood. There are many Persians in India. You know, Persians still intimidate the Moghuls. Ours is a magnificent culture, an ancient culture, and Persians never let the Moghuls forget it." Shirin had dabbed at her brow and rose to peer out the door of the observatory building, as though by instinct. "Did you know that the first Moghul came to India less than a hundred years ago, actually after the Portuguese? He was named Babur, a distant descendant of the Mongol warrior Genghis Khan, and he was from Central Asia. Babur was the grandfather of Akman. They say he had wanted to invade Persia but that the ruling dynasty, the Safavis, was too strong. So he invaded India instead, and the Moghuls have been trying to make it into Persia ever since. That's why Persians can always find work in India. They teach their language at court, and give lessons in fashion, and in painting and garden design. Samad came here from Persia, and now he's the national poet."
"What do these Persians have to do with whatever's happening in Agra? Are you, or your family, somehow involved too?"
"My father was Shayhk Mirak." She hesitated a moment, as though expecting a response. Then she continued evenly, "Of course, you'd not know of him. He was a court painter. He came to India when Akman was Moghul and took a position under the Persian Mir Sayyid Ali, who directed the painting studio Akman founded. You know, I've always found it amusing that Akman had to use Persian artists to create the Moghul school of Indian painting. Anyway, my father was very skilled at Moghul portraits, which everybody now says were invented by Akman. And when Akman died, Arangbar named my father to head the school. It lasted until she was brought to Agra."
"Who?"
"The queen, the one called Janahara."
"But why was your father sent away?"
"Because I was sent away."
Hawksworth thought he sensed a kind of nervous intensity quivering behind Shirin's voice. It's your story, he told himself, that I'd really like to hear. But he said nothing, and the silence swelled. Finally she spoke again.
"To understand the trouble now, you must understand about the queen. Her story is almost amazing, and already legends are growing around her. It's said she was born the day her father, Zainul Beg, left Persia as an adventurer bound for India. He ordered her abandoned in the sun to die, but after the caravan traveled on his wife lamented for the baby so much he decided to return for her. Although the sun was intense, they found her still alive. It's said a cobra was shading her with his hood." Shirin turned to Hawksworth, her dark eyes seeming to snap. "Can you believe such a story?"
"No. It sounds like a fable."
"Neither can I. But half the people in India do. Her father finally reached Lahore, the city in India where Akman was staying, and managed to enter his service. Like any Persian he did very well, and before long Akman gave him a mansab rank of three hundred zat. His wife and daughter were allowed to come and go among the palace women. Then, when she was seventeen, this little Persian girl of the cobra began her plan. She repeatedly threw herself across the path of the Moghul’s son Arangbar, whom she rightly guessed would be next in line for the throne. He was no match for her, and now people say she won his heart before he knew it himself. My own belief is she cast a spell on him."
"And he married her?"
"Of course not. Akman was no fool. He knew she was a schemer, and when he saw what she was doing he immediately had her married to a Persian general named Sher Afgan, whom he then appointed governor of Bengal, a province in the distant east of India. Akman died a few years after that, still thinking he had saved Arangbar from her, but he hadn't counted on the spell."
"So how did she get back to Agra, and become queen?"
"That part I know very well." Shirin laughed bitterly. "I was there. You see, Arangbar never forgot his Persian cobra girl, even after he became Moghul himself. And he found a way to get her back. One day he announced he was receiving reports of unrest in Bengal, where Sher Afgan was still governor, and he summoned the governor to Agra to explain. When no answer came, he sent troops. Nobody knows what happened, but the story was given out that Sher Afgan drew a sword on Arangbar's men. Perhaps he did. They say he was impulsive. But the Imperial troops cut him down. Then Arangbar ordered Sher Afgan's Persian wife and her little daughter, Layla, back to Agra and put them under the protection of his mother, the dowager queen. Then, just as we'd all predicted, he married her. At first he was going to put her in the zenana, the harem, but she refused. She demanded to be made his queen, an equal. And that's what he did. Except now she's actually more. She's the real ruler of India."
"And you were in the harem, the zenana, then?" Hawksworth decided to gamble on the story he had heard.
Shirin stared at him, trying to hide what seemed to be surprise. "You know." For a moment he thought she might reach out and touch his hand, but then she drew back into herself. "Yes, I was still in the zenana then, but not for long. The first thing Janahara did was find out which women Arangbar favored, and she then had us all married off to governors of provinces far from Agra. You know a Muslim man is allowed four wives, so there's always room for one more. Mukarrab Khan got me."
"She seems very clever."
"You haven't heard even half her story yet. Next she arranged to have her brother, Nadir Sharif, appointed prime minister, and her father, Zainul Beg, made chief adviser to Arangbar. So now she and her family control the Moghul and everyone around him." Shirin paused. "Not quite everyone. Yet. Not Prince Jadar."
"But he'll be the next Moghul. When that happens, what becomes of her?"
"He should be the next Moghul. And if he is, her power will be gone. That's why she wants to destroy him now."
"But how can she, if he's the rightful heir?" Hawksworth found himself suddenly dismayed by the specter of Agra in turmoil.
"No one knows. But she'll think of a way. And then she'll find someone she can control to be the next Moghul."''
'But why do you care so much who succeeds Arangbar?"
"One reason I care is because of Samad." Her eyes suddenly saddened.
"Now I really don't understand. He's a poet. Why should it matter to him?"
"Because the queen would like to see him dead. He has too much influence. You must understand that the queen and her family are Shi'ites, a Persian sect of Islam. They believe all men should bow to some dogmatic mullah, whom they call an imam. But this was never in the teachings given to the Prophet."
A curse on all religions, Hawksworth had thought. Am I caught in the middle of some Muslim holy war?
"But why do these Persians, or their imams, want to be rid of Samad?"
"Because he's a Sufi, a mystic, who teaches that we all should find God within our own selves. Without the mullahs. That's why the Persian Shi'ites despise him and want him dead."
"Then he's supporting Prince Jadar?"
"Samad does not concern himself with politics. But it's the duty of the others of us, those who understand what is happening, to help Prince Jadar. Because we know he will stop the Persians and their Shi'ites who are now spreading their poison of hate in India, and he'll also rid India of the Portuguese. I'm sure of it." She paused for a moment. "You know, it's always seemed ironic that the Persians and the Portuguese should actually work together. But in a way each needs the other. The Portuguese have made the Persians, particularly the queen and her brother, Nadir Sharif, very rich, and in return they're allowed to send their Jesuits to preach. So both the Persians and the Portuguese want to prevent Prince Jadar from becoming the next Moghul,
since they know he'd like nothing better than to rid India of them both."
"But what does this have to do with me? I just want a trading firman from Arangbar. He's still alive and healthy, and he should know the Portugals can't stop English trading ships from coming here. Why shouldn't he give us a firman?"
"Can't you see? The English can never be allowed to trade here. It would be the beginning of the end for the Portuguese. It would show all the world they no longer can control India's ports. But what I'm really trying to make you see is that it's not only the Portuguese who want to stop you. It's also the people who support them. So no one can aid you openly. The Persians are already too powerful. Still, there are those here who would protect you."
"Who do you mean?"
"How could I possibly tell you?" She held him with her eyes. "I scarcely know you. But you should listen to your intuition. Samad says we all have an inner voice that tells us what is true."
This time she did reach and touch his hand, and her touch was strangely warm in the chill of the room. "I can't tell you any more, really. So now will you play for me? Something tender, perhaps. A song you would play for the woman you left behind you in England."
"I didn't have all that much to leave behind." He picked up the lute. "But I'll be happy to play for you."
"You have no one?"
"There was a woman in London. But she married while I was . . . gone."
"She wouldn't wait while you were away?" Shirin sipped again from her cup and her eyes darkened. "That must have been very sad for you."
"It could be she didn't think I was worth waiting for." He hesitated. "I've had some time to think about it since. In a way it was probably my own fault. I think she wanted more than I was ready to give."
She looked at him and smiled. "Perhaps what she wanted was you. And you wouldn't give yourself. Tell me what she was like."
"What was she like?" He looked away, remembering Maggie's face with a strange mixture of longing and bitterness. "Well, she's like nobody I've seen in India. Red hair, blue eyes . . . and a salty tongue." He laughed. "If she was ever anybody's fourth wife, I'd pity the other three." He felt his laugh fade. "I missed her a lot when I was away before. But now . . ." He tried to shrug.
She looked at him as though she understood it all. "Then if you won't play for her any more, will you play just for me? One of your English ragas?"
"What if I played a suite by Dowland, one of our English composers? It's one of my favorites." He found himself smiling again, the lute comfortable and reassuring in his grasp. "I hope you won't think it sounds too out of place."
"We're both out of place here now." She returned his smile wistfully and glanced at the papers on the desk. "You and me."
The Moghul Page 12