The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  The sun was directly overhead when Vasant Rao reined his iron-gray stallion to a halt at the Abidjan Gate. Behind him, beyond the grove of mango and tamarind trees, lay the stone reservoir of Surat. It was almost a mile in circum­ference, and he had chosen its far bank as campground for his Rajput guard. Accommodations in Surat were nonexis­tent during the season, and although he could have cleared a guest house with a single name, Prince Jadar, he had chosen to remain inconspicuous.

  Through the dark bamboo slats of the gate he could now see the Englishman riding toward him, holding his Arabian mare at an easy pace. Vasant Rao studied the gait carefully. He had learned he could always judge the character of a man by observing that man's handling of a mount. He casually stroked his moustache and judged Brian Hawksworth.

  The Englishman is unpracticed, yet there's an unmistak­able sense of command about him. Not unlike the control the prince holds over a horse. He handles the mare almost without her knowing it, forcing discipline onto her natural gait. Perhaps our treacherous friend Mirza Nuruddin was right. Perhaps the Englishman will suit our requirements.

  Vasant Rao remembered that Jadar had been insistent on the point.

  "The English captain must be a man of character and nerve, or he must never reach Burhanpur. You need only be seen providing his guard as you depart Surat. If he's weak, like a Christian, he will not serve our needs."

  The times ahead will be difficult enough, Vasant Rao told himself, without having to worry about the Englishman. The prince has been trapped in the south, and now there's news Inayat Latif and his troops are being recalled to Agra from Bengal. The queen will soon have at her right hand the most able general in the Moghul’s army.

  Vasant Rao turned his eyes from the Englishman to look again at his own Rajput guard, and his pride in them restored his spirit. Only Rajputs would have the courage to one day face the numerically superior troops of Inayat Latif.

  The origin of the warrior clans who called themselves Rajputs, "sons of kings," was lost in legend. They had appeared mysteriously in western India over half a millen­nium before the arrival of the Moghuls, and they had royalty, and honor, in their blood. They had always demanded to be known as Kshatriya, the ancient Hindu warrior caste.

  The men, and women, of the warrior Kshatriya clans lived and died by the sword, and maintained a timeless tradition of personal honor. Theirs was a profession of arms, and they lived by rules of conduct unvaried since India's epic age. A member of the warrior caste must never turn his back in battle, must never strike with concealed weapons. No warrior could strike a foe who was fleeing, who asked for mercy, whose own sword was broken, who slept, who had lost his armor, who was merely an onlooker, who was facing another foe. Surrender was unthinkable. A Rajput defeated in battle need not return home, since his wife would turn him out in dishonor for not having given his life. But if a Rajput perished with a sword in his hand, the highest honor, his wife would proudly follow him in death, joining his body on the funeral pyre. And many times, in centuries past, Rajput women themselves had taken up swords to defend the honor of their clain.

  When they had no external foes, the Rajput clans warred among themselves, since they knew no other life. For convenience, each clan decreed its immediate neighboring clans its enemies, and an elaborate code was devised to justify war over even the smallest slight. Their martial skills were never allowed to gather rust, even if the cost was perpetual slaughter of each other.

  Though they were divided among themselves, the Rajput clans had for centuries defended their lands from the Muslim invaders of India. Only with the coming of the great Moghul genius Akman was there a Muslim ruler with the wisdom to understand the Rajputs could be more valuable as allies than as foes. He abandoned attempts to subdue them, instead making them partners in his empire. He married Rajput princesses; and he used Rajput fighting prowess to extend Moghul control south and west in India.

  The men with Vasant Rao were the elite of the dominant Chauhan clan, and all claimed descent from royal blood. They held strong loyalties, powerful beliefs, and absolutely no fear of what lay beyond death. They also were men from the northwest mountains of India, who had never before seen Surat, never before seen the sea, never before seen a feringhi.

  But Vasant Rao had seen feringhi, when he had stood by the side of Prince Jadar in Agra, when Jesuit fathers had been called to dispute with Muslim mullahs before Arang­bar. He had seen their tight, assured faces, and heard their narrow, intolerant views. Could this feringhi be any different?

  Already he had witnessed the Englishman's nerve, and it had reminded him, curiously, of Jadar. The Englishman had refused to come to their camp, claiming this demeaned his office of ambassador. And Vasant Rao, representative of Prince Jadar, had refused to meet the Englishman inside Surat. Finally it was agreed that they would meet at the wall of the city, at the Abidjan Gate.

  "Nimaste, Ambassador Hawksworth. His Highness, Prince Jadar, conveys his most respectful greetings to you and to the English king." Vasant Rao's Turki had been excellent since his boyhood, and he tried to remember the phrases Mirza Nuruddin had coached. Then he watched through the bamboo poles of the gate as Hawksworth performed a lordly salaam from horseback.

  The gate opened.

  "I am pleased to offer my good offices to you and your king," Vasant Rao continued, "in the name of His Highness, the prince. It is his pleasure, and my honor, to provide you escort for your journey east to Burhanpur. From there His Highness will arrange a further escort for the trip north to Agra."

  "His Majesty, King James, is honored by His Highness' concern." Hawksworth examined the waiting Rajputs, his apprehension mounting. Their eyes were expressionless beneath their leather helmets, but their horses pawed impatiently. He found himself wondering if Mirza Nuruddin had contrived to provide more "help," and yet another surprise. "But my route is not yet decided. Although I'm grateful for His Highness' offer, I'm not certain traveling east on the Burhanpur road is best. His Excellency, Mukarrab Khan, has offered to provide an escort if I take the Udaipur road, north past Cambay and then east."

  Vasant Rao examined Hawksworth, choosing his words carefully. "We have orders to remain here for three days, Captain, and then to return to Burhanpur. It would be considered appropriate by the prince, who has full authority to administer this province, if we rode escort for you."

  Hawksworth shifted in the saddle.

  This isn't an offer. It's an ultimatum.

  "Is His Highness aware I have with me a large sea chest? It will require a cart, which I plan to hire. Perhaps the delay this will impose would inconvenience you and your men, since you surely prefer to ride swiftly."

  "On the contrary, Captain. We will have with us a small convoy of supplies, lead for molding shot. We will travel at a pace that best suits us all. Your chest presents no difficulty."

  But there will be many difficulties, he told himself. And he thought again about Mirza Nuruddin and the terms he had demanded. Twenty percent interest on the loan, and only a hundred and eighty days to repay both the new silver coin and the interest.

  But why, Vasant Rao asked himself again, did the Shahbandar agree to the plan at all? Is this Mirza Nuruddin's final wager? That Jadar will win?

  "Will three days be sufficient for your preparations, Captain Hawksworth?"

  "It will. If I decide to use the Burhanpur road." Hawksworth wondered how long he could taunt the Raput.

  "Perhaps I should tell you something about travel in India, Ambassador. There are, as you say, two possible routes between Surat and Agra. Both present certain risks. The northern route, through Udaipur and Rajputana, is at first appearance faster, since the roads are drier and the rivers there have already subsided from the monsoon. But it is not a part of India where travelers are always welcomed by the local Rajput clans. You may well find yourself in the middle of a local war, or the reluctant guest of a petty raja who judges you worth a ransom.

  "On the other hand, if you
travel east, through Burhanpur, you may find that some rivers are still heavy from the monsoon, at least for another month. But the clans there are loyal to Prince Jadar, and only near Chopda, halfway to Burhanpur, will you encounter any local brigands. Theirs, however, is an honorable profession, and they are always willing to accept bribes in return for safe passage. We ordinarily do not kill them, though we easily could, since petty robbery—they view it as a toll—is their livelihood and their tradition. They are weak and they make weak demands. Such is not true of the rajas in Rajputana. The choice is yours, but if you value your goods, and your life, you will join us as we make our way east to Burhanpur."

  Hawksworth studied the bearded Rajput guards as Vasant Rao spoke.

  I'm either a captive of the prince or of Mukarrab Khan, regardless of what I do. Which one wants me dead more?

  "My frigate sails tomorrow. I can leave the following day."

  "Good, it's agreed then. Our convoy will leave in three days. It will be my pleasure to travel with you, Captain Hawksworth. Your reputation has already reached His Highness. We will meet you here at the beginning of the second pahar. I believe that's your hour of nine in the morning." He smiled with a warmth that was almost genuine. "You should consider yourself fortunate. Few feringhi have ever traveled inland. You will find the interior far different from Surat. Until then."

  He bowed lightly and snapped a command to the waiting horsemen. In moments they were lost among the trees.