The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  Brian Hawksworth waited in the crowded square of the Diwan-i-Am, holding a large package and hoping the rumored appearance of Arangbar was true. For the past four days the Moghul had not held durbar, had remained in complete isolation. But only an hour before, talk had circulated in the square that Arangbar would hold a brief reception before departing, probably in a tent pavilion that had been erected in the center of the square. As though to verify the speculation, slaves had unrolled several thick carpets beneath the tent, installed a dais, and were now positioning his throne onto the platform.

  Hawksworth stared about the square and felt his palms sweat.

  Is this the last time I ever see the Moghul of India? And Shirin never again? Is this how it ends?

  He had spent the last several days in a private hell, thinking of Shirin and waiting for the first fever, the first nodules that would signal the plague. So far there had been no signs of the disease. And he had heard that the consensus in the bazaar was the infection would subside within the month. Clearly it would be nothing like London in 1603.

  Palace rumors said that Shirin was still alive. All executions had ceased after the appearance of the plague. And stories were that the Moghul was rarely seen sober. Perhaps, Hawksworth told himself, Arangbar has stayed so drunk he has forgotten her.

  He had finally conceived one last plan to try to save her. Then he had packed his chest, settled his accounts, and dismissed his servants. If nothing came of the meeting today . . . if there was a meeting . . . he would have to leave in any case.

  He moved closer to the royal pavilion, pushing his way through the melee of shirtless servants. The elephants for the zenana had been moved into the square and were now being readied. There were, by Hawksworth's rough count, approximately a hundred elephants to carry Arangbar's women. The howdahs for the main wives were fashioned from gold, with gratings of gold wire around the sides to provide a view and an umbrella canopy of silver cloth for shade. A special elephant was waiting for Queen Janahara and Princess Layla, decorated with a canvas of gold brocade and bearing a jewel-studded howdah.

  As Hawksworth watched, another elephant, shining with black paint and the largest he had ever seen, lumbered regally into the square, ridden by a mahout with a gold-braided turban. Its covering was even more lavish than that of the queen's mount, and its howdah was emblazoned with the Imperial standard of Arangbar, a long-tailed lion crouching menacingly in front of a golden sun face. Beneath the verandas rows of saddled horses waited for the lesser members of the court, each with a slave stationed alongside bearing an umbrella of gold cloth, and in front of the horses were rows of crimson-colored palanquins, their pearl-embroidered velvet gleaming in the light, ready for high officials.

  The roadway leading from the square of the Diwan-i-Am had been lined with a guard of three hundred male war elephants, each with a cannon turret on its back. Behind those, three hundred female elephants stood idling in the sunshine, their backs covered with gold cloth marked with the Moghurs insignia, waiting to be loaded with household goods from the zenana. Just beyond the gate a host of watermen were poised with waterskins slung from their backs, ready to run before the Moghul’s procession sprinkling the roadway to banish dust. Near them a small party of men stood holding the harness of a camel bearing a roll of white cloth, used to cover and banish from sight any dead animals that might lie along the route of the Moghuls party.

  The courtyard erupted with a sudden blare of trumpets and kettledrums, and Hawksworth turned to see Arangbar being carried in on an open palanquin, supported by uniformed eunuchs. A slave walked along one side, holding a satin umbrella over his head for shade, while on the other, two chubby eunuchs walked fanning him with sprays of peacock feathers attached to long poles.

  As the palanquin neared the tent, Hawksworth pushed through the crowd to gain a better view. Arangbar was dressed for a ceremonial occasion, wearing a velvet turban with a plume of white heme feathers almost two feet in length. A walnut-sized ruby dangled from one side of the turban, and on the other side was a massive diamond, paired with a heart-shaped emerald. Around his turban was a sash wreathed with a chain of pearls. Rings bearing flashing jewels decorated every finger, and his cloak was gold brocade, decorated with jeweled armlets.

  As he descended from the palanquin, at the entry of the pavilion, the nobles near him yelled "Padshah Salamat," Long Live the Emperor, and performed the teslim. As he moved toward his throne two more eunuchs were waiting. One stepped forward and presented an enormous pink carp on a silver tray, while the other held out a dish of starchy white liquid. Arangbar dipped his finger in the liquid, touched it to the fish, then rubbed his own forehead—a Moghul ceremony presaging good omens for a march.

  Next, another eunuch stepped forward, bowed, and presented him with a sword. He stared at it for a moment as though confused, then shakily ran his finger along the diamonds set in the scabbard and the braided gold belt. As the eunuch urged it toward him, he nodded and allowed it to be buckled at his waist. Another eunuch then presented him with a golden quiver containing thin bamboo arrows and a gleaming lacquer bow.

  As he mounted the dais, two eunuchs moved to his side, each waving a gold-handled tail of white yak hair intended to drive away flies. Another fanfare of trumpets and drums cut the air as the eunuchs helped him onto the throne.

  Only when Arangbar was seated did Hawksworth notice that Nadir Sharif and Zainul Beg were already waiting at the foot of the dais. He also noted Queen Janahara was not present. And then he realized why. The servants had neglected to erect her screen, the one she normally sat behind to dictate his decisions. Since the appearance of Arangbar's solitary rule still had to be maintained, she could not be seen publicly issuing orders, at least not yet.

  Hawksworth smiled to himself, wondering whose head would roll for the oversight. Then, as he watched Nadir Sharif begin explaining petitions to Arangbar, he thought he sensed a gleam of triumph in the prime minister's eye. Could it be the failure to install a screen was deliberate?

  The Persian Safavid ambassador approached with the obligatory gift, this time an ornamental case containing a ruby on a gold chain, and then handed up a paper. Arangbar listened to Nadir Sharif explain the document, then appeared to ponder it a moment. Finally he waved his arms lightly and agreed to something Hawksworth did not catch. The ambassador bowed his appreciation, revolved with enormous dignity, and retreated into the sunshine.

  Arangbar was already beginning to grow restless, clearly anxious to dismiss everyone and begin loading the zenana women onto their elephants. He turned and spoke to Nadir Sharif, who replied quickly and motioned toward a Portuguese emissary in a starched doublet who stood waiting, together with Father Sarmento. It was the first time Hawksworth had noticed them, and he felt his gut knot in hatred as he shoved his own way forward toward the pavilion.

  Arangbar listened with a glazed expression, nodding occasionally, as the Portuguese emissary delivered an elaborate speech, translated by Sarmento, and began laying out the contents of a chest he carried. With theatrical flair he drew out several large silver candlesticks, a brace of gold- handled knives with jewel-embossed sheaths, a dozen wine cups of Venetian crystal. Then he produced a leather packet with a red wax seal. He spoke a few more words and passed it to Nadir Sharif.

  The prime minister examined it, broke the seal to extract the parchment, then gestured for Sarmento to come forward to translate. The Jesuit suddenly looked very old and very uneasy as he adjusted his peaked black hat and took the paper.

  Hawksworth shoved closer, and for the first time Arangbar seemed to notice him. The Moghul’s eyes darkened and he started to say something in Hawksworth's direction, but Sarmento had already begun the translation into Turki.

  "His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, sends this message of his high regard and everlasting friendship for His Most High Majesty, the Great Moghul of India. He bows before you and hopes you will honor him by accepting these few small tokens of his admirati
on."

  Sarmento shifted and cleared his throat. Arangbar's eyes had fluttered partially closed and his head seemed to nod sleepily at the conventional flattery.

  "His Excellency asks Your Majesty's indulgence of a grievous misdeed last week by a captain of one of our patrol vessels. He assures Your Majesty that the captain will be stripped of all rank and returned in chains to Goa within the month."

  Arangbar's eyes had again opened and he shifted slightly on the throne. "What 'misdeed' is referred to?"

  Sarmento looked at the emissary, who quickly replied in Portuguese. The Jesuit turned again to Arangbar.

  "Your Majesty will doubtless receive a dispatch from Surat within a short time describing an unfortunate incident. His Excellency wants you to understand in advance that it was a mistaken order, undertaken entirely without his knowledge or approval."

  Arangbar was fully awake now and staring down at the two Portuguese.

  "What order? Did the Viceroy order something he now wishes to disown? What was it?"

  "It's the unfortunate matter of the Fatima, Your Majesty." Sarmento turned helplessly toward the Por­tuguese emissary, as though he too were searching for an explanation.

  "What about the Fatima? She's my largest cargo vessel. She's due in Surat in two days, with goods from Persia." Arangbar's face was sober now. "Her Highness, Maryam Zamani, had eighty lakhs of rupees . . ."

  "The Fatima is safe, Your Majesty. She has only been detained at sea, on a mistaken interpretation of His Excellency's orders." Sarmento seemed to be blurting out the words. "But he wishes to assure you . . ."

  "Impossible!" Arangbar's voice was suddenly a roar. "He would not dare! He knows the cargo was under my seal. I have a copy of the cartaz sent to Goa."

  "It was a grievous mistake, Majesty. His Excellency sends his deepest apologies and offers to . . ."

  "It was done on someone's order! It had to be his. How can it be a 'mistake'!" Arangbar's face had gone purple. "Why was it ordered in the first place?"

  Sarmento stood speechless while the envoy spoke rapidly into his ear. Then he looked back at Arangbar. "Mistakes are always possible, Majesty. His Excellency wishes to assure you the vessel and all cargo will be released within two weeks."

  "I demand it be released immediately! And damages equal the value of the cargo brought to me personally." Arangbar's face was livid. "Or he will never again have a pice of trade in an Indian port."

  Sarmento turned and translated quickly to the emissary. The Portuguese's face dropped over his moustache and he hesitantly spoke something to Sarmento.

  "We regret we have no power at this time to authorize a payment for damages, Majesty. But we assure you His Excellency will . . ."

  "Then 'His Excellency' will have no more trade in India." Arangbar turned, his face overflowing with rage, and shouted to the guards standing behind him. As they ran to his side he drew his sword and waved it drunkenly at the emissary, whose face had gone white. "Take him away."

  As the guards seized the terrified Portuguese by the arms, sending his hat tumbling onto the carpet, he looked imploringly at Nadir Sharif. But the prime minister's face was a mask. Then Arangbar turned on Father Sarmento. "If His Excellency has anything else to say to me, he will say it himself, or he will send someone with the authority to answer me. I do not receive his peons."

  Sarmento flinched at the insulting Goan slang for dockhand. "Your Majesty, again I assure you . . ."

  "You will never again assure me of anything. I've listened to your assurances for years, largely on matters about which you have only belief, never proof. You assured me of the power of the Christian God, but never once would you accept the challenge of the Islamic mullahs to cast a Bible and the Quran into a fire together, to show once and for all which held sacred truth. But their test is no longer needed. Your Christian lies are over." Arangbar rose unsteadily from his throne, his brow harrowed by his fury. "I order your stipend terminated and your church in Agra closed. And your mission in Lahore. There will never again be a Christian church in India. Never."

  "Your Majesty, there are many Christians in India." Sarmento's voice was pleading. "They must have a priest, to minister the Holy Sacrament."

  "Then do it in your lodgings. You no longer have a church." Arangbar settled back on the throne, his anger seeming to overwhelm him. "Never see me again unless you bring news the ship is released, and my demands met. Never."

  Sarmento watched in horror as Arangbar dismissed him with a gesture of his arm. The old Jesuit turned and moved trembling into the crowd that had pushed around the sides of the pavilion. As he passed by Hawksworth, he suddenly stopped.

  "This was all because of you." His voice quivered. "I learned of this only today from my foolish prodigal, Pinheiro. May God have mercy on you, heretic. You and your accomplices have destroyed all His work in India."

  As Hawksworth tried to find an answer he heard a drunken shout.

  "Inglish! What are you doing here? Come forward and explain yourself."

  He looked up to see Arangbar motioning at him.

  "Are you deaf? Come forward." Arangbar glared mischievously. "Why are you still in Agra? We were told we sent you away, almost a week ago. I think I may decide to have you and every other Christian in India hanged."

  "May it please Your Majesty, I came to request an audience." Hawksworth moved quickly forward, past the confused guards, carrying the package he had brought.

  "And what have you stolen of ours, Inglish? Have you come now to tell us it was all a mistake, before I order your hand cut off?"

  "Englishmen are not Portugals, Your Majesty. We do not take what is not our own. What have I ever taken that Your Majesty did not freely give?"

  "It's true what you say, Inglish. You are not a Portu­guese." Arangbar suddenly beamed as a thought flashed through his eyes. "Tell me, Inglish, will your king destroy their fleets for me now?"

  "Why would he do so, Your Majesty? You have denied him the right to trade; you have refused to grant the firman he requested."

  "Not if he will rout the Portuguese infidels from our seas, Inglish. They are a pestilence, a plague, that sickens all it touches." Arangbar waved in the direction of a eunuch, ordering wine for himself. "You deceived me once, Inglish, but you did not rob me. Perhaps we will have you stay here a few days longer."

  "I have already made preparations to depart, Your Majesty, on your orders."

  "You cannot travel without our permission, Inglish. We still rule India, despite what the Portuguese Viceroy may think." Arangbar paused and drank thirstily from the glass of wine. "So why did you want an audience, Inglish, if you were planning to leave?"

  Hawksworth paused, thinking of the decision he had made, wondering again if there was a chance.

  "I've come to make a trifling request of Your Majesty." He moved forward and bowed, presenting his parcel, the obligatory gift.

  "What's this have you brought us, Inglish?"

  "May it please Your Majesty, after settling my accounts in Agra, I have no money remaining to purchase gifts worthy of Your Majesty. I have only this remaining. I offer it to Your Majesty, in hopes you will understand its unworthiness in your eyes is matched only by its unequaled value to me. It is my treasure. I have had it by my side for over twenty years, at sea and on land."

  Arangbar accepted the parcel with curiosity and flipped aside the velvet wrap. An English lute sparkled against the sunshine.

  "What is this, Inglish?" Arangbar turned it in his hand, examining the polished cedar staves that curved to form its melon-shaped back.

  "An instrument of England, Your Majesty, which we hold in the same esteem you grant your Indian sitar."

  "This is a curious toy, Inglish. It has so few strings." He examined it a moment longer, then turned to Hawksworth. "Do you yourself play this instrument?"

  "I do, Your Majesty."

  "Then we will hear it." Arangbar passed the lute back to Hawksworth, while the nobles around them buzzed in astonishment.


  Hawksworth cradled it against him. The feel of its body flooded him with sadness as he realized he would never play it again. Memories of London, Tunis, Gibraltar, a dozen cabins and lodgings, flooded over him. He inhaled deeply and began a short suite by Dowland. It was the one he had played for Shirin that afternoon so long ago in the observatory in Surat.

  The clear notes flooded the canopied pavilion with their rich full voice, then drifted outward into the square, settling silence in their path. The suite was melancholy, a lament of lost love and beauty, and Hawksworth found his own eyes misting as he played. When he reached the end, the last crisp note died into a void that seemed to be his own heart. He held the lute a moment longer, then turned to pass it back to Arangbar.

  The Moghul’s eyes seemed to be misting as well. "I have never heard anything quite like it, Inglish. It has a sadness we never hear in a raga. Why have you never played for us before?"

  "Your Majesty has musicians of your own."

  "But no instrument like this, Inglish. Will you have your king send us one?"

  "But I have given you mine, Majesty."

  Arangbar examined the lute once more, then looked at Hawksworth and smiled. "But if I keep this instrument now, Inglish, I will most probably forget by tomorrow where I have put it." He winked at Hawksworth and handed back the lute. "Have your king send us one, Inglish, and a teacher to instruct our musicians."

  Hawksworth could not believe what he was hearing. "I humbly thank Your Majesty. I . . ."

  "Now what was it you came to ask of us, Inglish?" Arangbar continued to study the lute as he sipped from his wine. "Ask it quickly."

  "Merely a trifling indulgence of Your Majesty."

  "Then tell us what it is, Inglish." Arangbar turned and searched the square with his eyes, as though monitoring the state of preparations.

  Hawksworth cleared his throat and tried to still his pulse. "Your Majesty's release of the Persian woman Shirin, who is guilty of no crime against Your Majesty."

  Arangbar's smile faded as he turned back to Hawksworth.

  "We have not yet decided her fate, Inglish. She does not concern you."

  "May it please Your Majesty, she concerns me very much. I come to ask Your Majesty's permission to make her my wife, and to take her back to England with me, if Your Majesty will release her. She will be gone from India soon, and will trouble Your Majesty no further."

  "But we just told you you are not returning, Inglish. Not until we permit it." He grinned. "You must stay and play this instrument for us more."

  "Then I beg that her life be spared until the time I am allowed to leave."

  Arangbar studied Hawksworth and a grudging smile played on his lips. "You are an excellent judge of women, Inglish. Perhaps too much so. I suspected it the first time I saw you."

  "She wishes no ill toward Your Majesty. There is no purpose in taking her life."

  "How do you know what she wishes for us, Inglish? I think we know better than you." Arangbar paused to sip again from his wine cup. "But we will spare her for now, if your king will agree to send warships to drive the infidel Portuguese from our shores. And if you will agree to play more for me."

  "Will Your Majesty order her release?"

  "I will move her to my zenana for now, Inglish. Until matters are settled, I will order her brought with us to Fatehpur. That is my part of the bargain. What will you do about yours?"

  "I will inform my king of Your Majesty's wishes."

  "And he will comply, if he wants to trade in India." Arangbar turned to Nadir Sharif. "Order a horse for the Inglish. He will ride with us today. And have the woman Shirin sent to the zenana."

  Nadir Sharif bowed and edged next to Arangbar, adopting a confidential tone.

  "If I may be allowed, Your Majesty, you are aware the woman Shirin would not be entirely welcome in the zenana by Her Majesty, Queen Janahara."

  "Her Majesty is not the Moghul of India." Arangbar seemed suddenly exhilarated by the absence of the queen. "I have ordered it."

  "To hear is to obey." Nadir Sharif bowed low, casting a worried glance toward Hawksworth. "But perhaps it would be equally pleasing to Your Majesty . . . and to Her Majesty as well . . . to allow the woman to travel to Fatehpur under the cognizance of the English ambassador."

  Arangbar glanced toward the palace, and his exhilaration seemed to dissolve as suddenly as it had come. "Until Fatehpur, then. After that we will decide where she will be kept until the Inglish satisfies his part of the bargain." Arangbar turned to Hawksworth. "Agreed, Inglish?"

  "I bow to Your Majesty's will."

  "Durbar is concluded." Arangbar rose by himself and moved to the edge of the tent pavilion. As the trumpets and drums again sounded, the fanning eunuchs scurried to stay beside him. He stepped into the sunshine, stared about the square for a moment, then turned to Nadir Sharif.

  "Order everyone cleared and the women brought. I am suddenly growing weary of Agra."

  Nadir Sharif bowed again and spoke quickly to the captain of the guard. As the order was circulated, he quietly moved next to Hawksworth.

  "So it seems your luck changed after all, Ambassador. For now. But I fear it may not last. As a friend I suggest you make the most of it."