by Tim Severin
‘But what has that got to do with the colour of your skin?’
‘When we get to Delhi, you will observe that those who are considered to be Mogul have a lighter skin than the native peoples. In addition, I am prepared to convert to the religion of their Prophet.’
Hector carefully avoided a heap of camel dung in the road before saying, ‘Your father suggested to me that I enter Aurangzeb’s service, in his army or his navy. But he didn’t mention that I would have to change religion.’
Luis gave him a solemn look. ‘For you it is not the same. You would always be feringhee, a Frank, but I am born in Hindustan.’
‘And what does your Surati family think of your plan?’
‘They would prefer that if I am determined to enter Mogul service it should be as an adviser or a tax collector, something that lets me keep their religion. My family are Hindoo, and many Hindoos hold important positions, the omrahs depend upon them.’ Luis made a disdainful face. ‘But such people are still regarded as inferiors.’
He broke off, interrupted by a jingling sound as a man ran past them at a fast jog trot, a bag slung over his shoulder and small bells attached to his belt. He continued up the road without stopping. When Hector had first seen a dak runner, Luis had told him that they ran in ten-mile relays, carrying the letters and official correspondence that passed between the Mogul governors and the imperial administration. Despite the scorching heat of the open road, each time a dak runner overtook them, Hector felt a chill of fear at the thought of the evidence piling up against him. When Ganj-i-Sawa’i docked in Surat, the Mogul governor must have sent his report to Delhi about the pillage and rape aboard the ship. Doubtless further correspondence had gone back and forth as the other vessels of the hajj fleet straggled into harbour with similar tales of a pirate attack.
With effort, he pushed such thoughts out of his mind. What mattered now was to concentrate on becoming sufficiently fluent in Persian so he could speak in his own defence, and that of his two friends, when the time came for him to face Mogul justice.
✻
November was drawing to a close when it became apparent that Darshan’s little group was at last approaching Aurangzeb’s capital. Their road merged with others coming from different provinces of Hindustan, and the amount of traffic steadily increased until there was a constant stream of travellers, going in both directions. Now, instead of camping out in the villages, the fawjdar brought them to stay overnight in large mud-walled compounds conveniently situated a day’s travel apart. Each compound was arranged as a hollow square with workshops, food stalls, tea houses, storerooms and stables along the walls. The travellers’ every need was catered for, at a price. Vendors sold ready-cooked food, carpenters offered to mend damaged carts, leather workers were ready to stitch broken harness and metalworkers were capable of everything from riveting a patch on a holed cauldron to fitting the rim to a cartwheel. Incoming travellers tethered their animals in the open space in the centre and parked their vehicles there. Wealthier visitors hired sleeping rooms but everyone else found a spot where they could settle down among their heaps of baggage. It reminded Hector of ‘Exceeding Treasure’ with the pilgrims all crowded together on the main deck, though a caravanserai was noisier and smelled far worse. There were donkeys braying and camels bubbling and groaning, while bullocks, mules and horses contributed to the all-pervading stink of the barnyard.
On their final morning on the road, the highway was so thronged with pedestrians, carts and animals funnelling in towards the city that the dust hung like a thin fog. Hector was curious to know about the people on the move, so Luis gave him a running commentary. He could tell a man’s occupation and status with a single quick glance. That man swaggering along holding his sword in its fancy scabbard with brasswork decoration was a Rajput soldier. Trotting at his heels and carrying his leather shield was his servant. The prim figure dressed in white from the neat cotton cap to the full-length skirt-like garment that Luis called a dhoti was a scholar or a scribe. A skeletal creature naked except for a scrap of a loincloth was a holy man. His skin was covered in scabs and ash, and a tangle of long filthy hair hung to his knees. The fingernails of the hand which held his begging bowl had been allowed to grow to a four-inch spiral. There was no need to identify a Mogul. From time to time a palanquin moved at head level through the throng preceded by staff-wielding attendants who cleared a passage. Four or six strong men carried the Mogul reclining in his couch slung between two stout poles. On one side of the palanquin walked a man wafting the air with an enormous fan of peacock feathers, on the other side a water carrier held a jug in case his master needed to quench his thirst. Next to the water carrier was an attendant carrying a spittoon to catch the grandee’s spit.
Hector was looking forward to entering the Great Mogul’s capital. He imagined a city of broad avenues lined with the magnificent mansions of the omrahs. So he was disappointed when, passing through a down-at-heel district, Luis abruptly announced that they had reached their destination.
‘This is where Senhor Vieira has arranged for you and your friends to stay.’
Hector looked about him in surprise. The small houses lining the road were built of mud brick. Washing was hung out to dry on their roofs. A few roadside stalls had displays of dust-covered fruit and vegetables. To his right was a high wall of brick and plaster with a single large gate, firmly closed.
Luis had run forward to tell the carters to stop. The vehicles slowed to a halt and Luis held a brief conversation with Darshan. When he returned it was to say that the fawjdar insisted on delivering Gibson and the two sailors to the common goal in Delhi.
‘He’s not pleased about letting you and Jacques and Jezreel stay here,’ the young man explained. ‘I had to tell him that omrah Nizamuddin is expecting you. Like many omrahs he prefers to live outside the city where it is less crowded.’
Darshan was sitting in his bullock cart with his arms crossed. The sour expression on his long face made his displeasure clear. When Hector took a step towards the cage on the cart, intending to speak to Gibson, the fawjdar gave a sharp order, and the bullock drivers plied their whips. Hector could only stand and watch as the little convoy lurched forward and was soon lost from view among the other road users.
‘Good riddance. Let’s hope that’s the last we see of Pearl’s quartermaster,’ Jezreel said quietly beside him.
Hector felt a light touch on his elbow. It was Luis. ‘You and your friends should come inside.’ He went across to the gate and knocked several times. When the gate was finally pulled open a crack, he spoke to whoever was inside, then turned and beckoned for the travellers to follow.
After the cramped heat and dust of the streets, it was like stepping into an oasis. There were flowering shrubs in earthenware pots, fruiting trees and a broad immaculately tended lawn. A network of shallow channels fed clear running water into a central basin where a fountain played. A number of small pavilions stood among the trees. They had elegant arched doorways and roofs of small turquoise and gold tiles like the scales of exotic reptiles. Half-hidden behind a hedge with purple flowers was a low, plain building that evidently contained the kitchen and quarters for servants.
‘This is Nasir, the head steward,’ Luis was saying. ‘He will bring you to your quarters and see that you are comfortable.’
Nasir was a tall, grave-looking man with a beautifully barbered pure white beard and dressed in a dark yellow tunic. At a dignified walk he led the new arrivals along a footpath paved with slabs of marble to the far side of the garden, where he showed them into one of the smaller pavilions. Its sidewalls were made of open latticework so that any breeze could circulate. Inside were cushions and low tables, and a fine silk carpet with a pattern of flowers and leaves. The pavilion, the steward explained in careful Persian that Hector was able to follow easily, was for their exclusive use. Their baggage would be brought there shortly and he would arrange for some sherbet to be served. There was a small bathhouse to the rear of the pavil
ion. He apologized for the short delay before the water basins were filled and towels provided, but he had not received notice of their arrival. The main meal of the day would be delivered to the pavilion soon after evening prayers. It was important that they let the cooks know if there were any foods that they preferred or were forbidden.
‘This is the life,’ announced Jacques dropping down on a cushion with a contented sigh after the head steward had bowed himself out.
‘I wonder where Luis has got to?’ Jezreel asked. Their guide had quietly slipped away.
‘I expect he’s finding out when our omrah will be back in Delhi,’ Hector told him. ‘A lot is going to depend on this Nizamuddin, and whether he’s prepared to use his influence on our behalf.’
‘In the meantime I’m going to practise being a Mogul and let the future take care of itself,’ Jacques said, lying back and kicking off his shoes. ‘I trust the staff know how to make a good lemon sherbet.’
Hector did not hear him. He was gazing through the doorway of the pavilion and thinking of Maria. He pictured her out in the garden beside the fountain where a rose bush was showing a mass of vivid scarlet blossoms. She was reaching out to select a flower and drawing it closer to sniff its perfume. When she turned and looked back towards him, her face was alive with contentment. With a sudden jolt of memory, the image brought back the dream they had shared of moving to Libertalia and starting a new life with a smallholding of their own. He felt a deep sadness at the way everything seemed to have gone against him. He could accept that Libertalia had probably been a fantasy all along, but the possibility of entering the service of the Great Mogul had been very real. He could have brought Maria and their child to Hindustan, to enjoy a good life together as a family. Instead, he had reached Delhi under suspicion of the robbery and rape of the Aurangzeb’s subjects. If found guilty, he would suffer a brutal death. Nothing had turned out as he had intended.
SIXTEEN
‘We’re in luck. Today there’s to be a combat of elephants in front of the emperor himself,’ Luis announced brightly when he appeared in the door of the pavilion early the following morning. ‘It’s something you should see.’
‘What about omrah Nizamuddin? When do we get to meet him?’ Hector reminded him.
‘I spent last night at the house of one of my father’s friends, and he tells me that the omrah Nizamuddin is away inspecting his estates. He won’t return for several days.’
Judging from the young man’s cheerful expression, Hector guessed that Luis had still not been told about the terrible injuries that Tavares had suffered. News of what had happened to the artilleryman might not have reached Delhi during the two months they had been on the road but, just as likely, Tavares had died of his burns while still at sea.
‘Any news about the enquiry into what happened on Ganj-i-Sawa’i?’
Luis made a dismissive gesture. ‘It’ll be weeks before any Mogul official gets round to interviewing you.’
‘What about Gibson and the others?’
‘The fawjdar will put them safely under lock and key. I doubt we’ll see them again until much later.’ He was shifting impatiently from foot to foot. ‘Unless we hurry, we’ll miss the fight, and a chance to see Aurangzeb himself.’
It took an hour of brisk walking to get from Nizamuddin’s country home to where the elephant combat was to take place – an open sandy area directly under the looming east wall of Aurangzeb’s palace-cum-fort, Lal Qila. The imperial citadel was everything that Hector had expected of ‘the ruler of the world’. It was enormous. From where he stood, the towering rampart of great blocks of red sandstone was topped with extravagant domes perched on thin columns, watch towers and turrets. He could only imagine the splendours of what lay behind such flamboyantly awe-inspiring defences.
‘Up there is where Aurangzeb watches,’ said Luis excitedly, pointing to an ornate wooden balcony projecting halfway up the wall of the fort. ‘Today’s combat will only begin once he is seated.’
They joined a crowd of onlookers gathered around the edge of the open ground. At some distance away were two very large elephants. Both animals were clearly in a bad temper, flapping their ears rapidly and shifting uneasily from foot to foot. From time to time one of them trumpeted, a shrill bellow of rage. Anklets of heavy iron chain led back to massive pegs buried deep in the ground tethering both animals safely apart. Their handlers, two groups of about a dozen men, stood off to one side; several of them carried spears.
‘What’s that low wall for?’ Jezreel asked. A section of mud-brick wall, some six feet high and thirty paces long, had been built in the open space in front of the imperial viewing gallery.
‘So that the fight takes place directly under the emperor’s view.’
‘And the towers?’
At each end of the wall was a square tower, on top of which several men could be seen holding long lances.
‘The towers are refuges for the men on foot, a place for them to escape to if something goes wrong,’ Luis told him.
‘And what do we do if that happens?’
Luis flashed him a radiant smile. ‘We run! The fight is for the emperor’s pleasure. When there is a public spectacle like a military parade or an exhibition, viewing stands are erected for spectators. But not today.’
Jacques had been watching the elephant handlers. One of them ran forward, adjusted a thick rope girdle around the belly of one of the elephants, then darted clear.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Jacques.
‘That’ll be the elephant’s mahout, his rider. He’s getting his animal prepared.’
‘He seems frightened of the brute.’
‘Because his elephant is mast and very dangerous. He knows his animal better than he knows his own family. He’ll have grown up with the elephant. They share their lives.’
‘Are you saying that the animal is drunk?’ Hector asked in surprise. He had learned that in Persian mast meant drunk.
‘No, no. Mast is a temporary illness. Imagine you have a very bad toothache and the constant pain makes you want to lash out. That is what it is like for a bull elephant in the time of mast. He becomes mean and dangerous, even to his mahout. That is why mast elephants are chosen for the combat. If we could get closer, you would see that both elephants have a dark liquid running down the side of the head, from a hole behind the ear. That discharge is a sign that they are mast.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. I’ve no wish to come any closer,’ muttered Jacques.
The young man chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Jacques. Most of the elephants you will meet are females. They’re the ones used for carrying loads and pulling the emperor’s great cannon. Bull elephants are trained for war, to charge the enemy, gouge them with their tusks, stamp them into the ground.’
A general stir among the crowd, and a blast of trumpets followed by a roll of kettledrums announced that something was about to happen. Squinting up at the imperial viewing gallery, Hector could make out men beginning to take up their positions. Even from a distance he could see that they were sumptuously dressed. There was the sheen of bright silks in the morning sunshine and the occasional sparkle of a turban ornament.
An outburst of outraged animal squeals brought his attention back down to the two elephants. Men on foot were poking at them with long lances, manoeuvring them into position, one animal to each end of the mud wall though on opposite sides of it. Their ankle chains were no longer attached to the ground pegs, but rattled and clanked as they trailed behind them. The beasts were growing increasingly furious, swaying and bellowing, sweeping their trunks from side to side. To his astonishment he saw that each animal carried two riders. His mahout sat on the beast’s neck with his feet tucked in behind the angrily flapping ears. A second man was farther back, lying almost flat on the animal’s spine and clinging to the girth rope that circled the animal’s belly. Hector shivered in sympathy, wondering why the maddened animal did not reach back with its trunk, pluck off his mahout and fling him to the
ground. Then he realized that both beasts were too intent on attacking the other. On a hidden signal they charged at one another, running forward with a curious stiff-legged gait. They met head to head though separated by the low wall, in a flurry of violent squeals and roars. They reached across the wall with their trunks, trying to pull their adversary close enough to gouge with their tusks. Over the clamour of grunts and bellows came thin cries of encouragement from their mahouts. They were urging on their beasts, kicking them behind the ears, jabbing the sharp points of iron goads into their necks.
For several minutes the two great creatures battled, their trunks entwined, twisting and heaving to gain advantage. They butted one another and lunged with their tusks. The contest seemed to have reached deadlock when, at a yell of command from his mahout, the larger of the two beasts disengaged. It backed away a few paces, rose on its hind legs and threw itself forward bodily, crashing down on the mud wall with its front feet. The top of the wall broke away in a cloud of dust. Seconds later the huge beast was scrambling over the obstacle. It closed with its foe, locked its trunk around its opponent’s head, and twisted. Like an overpowered wrestler, the second elephant buckled. The front legs bent and it dropped on its front knees, sending its rider head over heels into the sand. Behind him his companion lost his grip on the rope girdle and fell to the ground. He disappeared among the legs of the victorious elephant as it pressed itself forward, gouging with its tusks, stamping with its huge feet, intent on killing its opponent.
Into this turmoil ran a dozen of the elephant handlers. They had firebrands tied to the ends of their spears which they waved in front of the victor, shouting to distract it and trying to force it to back off. Two men joined them, equipped with strings of lit firecrackers dangling from long poles. They held them close beneath the animal’s head until the snap and flare of the fireworks had their effect. The great beast pivoted on its hind legs, and lumbered away, head swinging from side to side in fury and fear as the handlers, puny in size, ran behind trying to gather up the trailing leg chains. Moments later a gate in the wall of the fortress opened, and half a dozen more elephants came out at a run. Urged on by their mahouts, they caught up with the fleeing bull elephant and boxed it in, finally forcing it to a halt. Heavy straps were passed around the animal and secured, and it was slowly escorted away.