by Tim Severin
‘That was magnificent, wasn’t it?’ asked Luis, his eyes shining. ‘The emperor will reward the successful mahout handsomely.’
Hector exhaled deeply – he had not been aware that he had been holding his breath – and his eyes searched for the dismounted mahout. The man was being taken from the field in a makeshift litter while his defeated elephant was struggling to get back on its feet. All that remained of the beast’s second rider was a shapeless lump lying on the sand. He looked up at the viewing balcony where Aurangzeb and his courtiers had watched the show. Already the Great Mogul and his courtiers had departed.
‘I wouldn’t mind having something cool to drink,’ he said.
✻
They followed Luis across the sand and in through a gate in Delhi’s city wall. Once inside, Hector understood why omrah Nizamuddin preferred to have his residence elsewhere. Delhi’s streets were narrow and cramped, hemmed in by the mould-streaked facades of buildings that rose on either side for three or four storeys. The air was stifling, with frequent whiffs of rotting matter mixing with the smells of charcoal cooking and incense. At every corner clusters of idlers gazed at passers-by and chatted amongst themselves, while sweepers, water carriers, night-soil porters trudged the alleys, rattling wooden clappers, clanging bells, and uttering long wailing cries as they tried to sell their services.
Fortunately, Luis knew his way and took them briskly through a succession of twists and turns until they came out on to a broad, straight avenue. ‘This leads from the west gate of the city directly to the great square at the main entrance of Lal Qila. There we’ll be able to find stalls offering every sort of food and drink,’ he informed his companions.
The avenue was crowded with people dressed in an extraordinary variety of colours and styles. There were men in long flowing gowns and sandals, others in pantaloons under loose flapping shirts that reached down to their knees. A few were naked to the waist, barefoot and with nothing but a loincloth. Turbans ranged from tightly wound, neat bandages of bright scarlet to huge wheel-like arrangements that used yards of cloth and projected a hands span beyond the wearer’s head. Beards could be long or neatly trimmed, snowy white or artificially black and oiled. Several were tinted with bright orange dye. The women favoured long shawls in pale yellow, white or lime green edged with broad stripes of indigo and violet. Chattering knowledgeably, Luis identified Kashmiris, Biharis, Bengalis and men from the Deccan by the differences in their appearance and dress. ‘Each and every one of them acknowledges the Great Mogul as their overlord and has come to his capital. Is he not the greatest lord on earth?’ he boasted.
Eventually the avenue opened out into a large square in front of the principal entrance to Aurangzeb’s palace, an immense barbican of red sandstone blocks three storeys high. Here the crowd thinned enough for Luis to point out lines of booths used by fortune tellers, astrologers, moneylenders, bankers and letter writers.
‘Pay no attention to the hucksters,’ he warned, shooing away a man blocking their path as he tried to sell them brightly coloured sweetmeats from a tray swarming with flies. ‘They’re rogues who will cheat anyone they think is a foreigner. I’m taking you to a place that serves drinks cooled with ice.’
‘Ice in this heat?’ asked Jezreel. Great patches of sweat soaked the underarms of his shirt, and his face was flushed.
‘The imperial household has a regular supply of ice brought in straw-wrapped blocks from the mountains in the north, but not all of it reaches the palace . . . some of it melts on the way.’
Jacques had come to a dead stop. He was staring into the teeming crowd ahead of them with a look of utter disbelief. ‘François Dufour, as I live and breathe,’ he exclaimed, ‘Dressed up like a pastry cook’s disaster.’
Moving through the crowd was a figure in a costume so extravagant that it made the most exotic native costumes seem drab. A very tall, thin white man wore a three-quarter-length coat of sky blue taffeta with wide skirts that flared out over a triple layer of short, wide, frilly petticoats. Below them were exposed several inches of pink satin knee breeches, then white silk stockings and finally a pair of gleaming yellow shoes with three-inch heels that obliged their wearer to move with small, deliberate steps. Most bizarre of all was his wig. A cone of starched white curls rose at least a foot above his head and was decorated with tiny silver ribbons that glinted in the sun. For a moment Hector was reminded of the deputy governor of Diu in his ornate formal dress, though Pedro Vieira’s costume would have looked restrained beside the stranger’s finery.
Luis had followed Jacques’s gaze. ‘That’s the Sieur de Tourville. Everyone in Delhi knows who he is: he advises several of the wealthiest omrahs on their purchases of gems and pearls. The rumour is that he may even be appointed as jeweller-in-chief to the Great Mogul himself.’
‘No, he’s not,’ said Jacques firmly. ‘He’s François Dufour, the most devious fence in Paris.’
‘I’m sorry, what do you mean “fence”?’ Luis enquired.
‘Someone who takes in stolen goods and sells them on discreetly,’ Jacques told him. ‘François Dufour gives you five per cent of what an item is really worth, even when he has someone lined up who will buy it from him for ten times as much, and no questions asked.’
Leaving Luis to wonder how he came by this information, Jacques shoved his way through the throng and tapped the tall man on the elbow. ‘Well met, François. I didn’t know you had joined the aristocracy,’ he said in French.
The man turned and peered down. He wore a thick mask of white face powder. ‘And who might you be, sir?’ he demanded haughtily. He spoke in English but with a strong French accent.
‘Jacques Bourdon, your former customer,’ Jacques told him, switching to English.
Hector had caught up with the two men and watched Dufour hesitate for the briefest moment before answering in an affected drawl, ‘Bourdon? I can’t say that I remember that name.’
Jacques gave a derisive snort. ‘Come on, François. What about your little office tucked away in a side street on the Île de la Cité? We met there often enough.’
Again the hesitation, longer this time, as Dufour calculated whether he should keep up his pretence of ignorance. By now several onlookers were staring at the two feringhees, wondering what was going on between them.
Dufour threw up an elegant hand in a gesture of mock surprise. ‘Why, of course . . . I must apologize for not recognizing you sooner, Jacques. How are things in Paris? And our gracious monarch?’
‘Haven’t set foot in Paris for years, and I’m not likely to go back there.’ Jacques touched a finger to the galley convict marks on his cheek.
Dufour’s eyes flickered round the bystanders, now openly listening to the conversation. Hector doubted if any of them understood English, though clearly they were intrigued by the spectacle of the gorgeously dressed jeweller exchanging words with an unpretentious foreigner.
Dufour forced a smile. ‘Why don’t we step across to my place, and share a glass of wine? Catch up with news. I live close by.’
Jacques glanced at Hector seeking his approval. He nodded.
Together they accompanied Dufour as he picked his way carefully across the square and into the warren of narrow streets that lapped up against the walls of Lal Qila.
‘This is a most auspicious encounter,’ Luis whispered to Hector. ‘The Sieur de Tourville is ranked among the most influential feringhees in all of Delhi. He may be able to assist when it comes to your trial.’
They arrived before one of the better-kept houses in the quarter, a tall, narrow building whose heavy door on to the street was protected by a watchman with a six-foot bamboo staff. Dufour muttered something to the guard who stood aside. A flight of stairs took them up to the first floor where Dufour groped for a key inside a petticoat pocket, unlocked another door and they found themselves in a large, high-ceilinged room. Slatted wooden shutters were closed to keep out the sun and left the air still and lifeless. All the furniture was European,
with several chairs, a desk, a large settee and a sturdy iron safe in one corner.
‘Welcome to my home,’ said Dufour closing the door behind them and turning the key, locking them in. He reached up and detached his wig, revealing a shaved scalp prickled with beads of sweat. He placed the wig carefully on a wig stand, before letting out a great sigh and taking off his gaudy coat, which he folded neatly and set on one side. Finally he removed his shoes and put on a pair of low, flat slippers. Even without his three-inch heels, François Dufour stood a couple of inches over six feet tall.
‘And who are your companions, Jacques?’ he asked crossing to a table on which stood a heavy clay jug. He poured out five glasses of water to which he added a generous measure of red wine from a porcelain flagon with a graceful curved spout. Jacques introduced Hector and the others, and as Dufour handed each man his glass, he treated him to an appraising glance with sharp, deep set eyes that missed nothing.
‘Here’s to your health,’ he said raising his own glass, ‘and if you want it to continue, stick to Ganges river water mixed with wine from Shiraz, a safe combination. Just don’t drink any of the muck that is offered to you in the bazaar.’
Indicating to his guests to be seated, he settled himself on a comfortable chair, stretched out his long legs in their silk stockings and when Jacques opened his mouth to speak, lifted a hand to stop him.
‘Jacques, I know what you’re going to ask. So first let me tell you that you see before you a gentleman of the bedchamber to his most august Majesty King Louis of France and also his former assistant keeper of the royal jewels, who now acts as his personal envoy to the Great Mogul in a private capacity.’
He looked around the faces of his guests and his voice now had a note of warning. ‘I would be grateful if you would keep that in mind, for my own well-being and yours.’
He took another taste of his watered wine. ‘Now let me put your curiosity at rest. I came to Delhi three years ago and have been living here ever since. For this happy change in my circumstances I have to thank a certain lady who attended what Jacques calls my “Paris office”. She nearly brought disaster, but instead thrust me into this new and most agreeable career.’
He took a moment to run a finger round his neck band, loosening the lace cravat. ‘The lady was of the nobility and married to a peer. She came late in the evening, uninvited and without her usual gaggle of attendants. She brought with her a collection of fine jewels for which she asked me to find a buyer. When she showed me the jewels – an exceptional collection of pearls and diamonds, including several unique pieces – I recognized them instantly. They were so valuable that even if I had made a ridiculously low offer for them –’ and here he treated Jacques to a knowing glance – ‘none of my trade acquaintances would be able to raise a sufficient sum to buy them from me.
‘I was also aware that the collection was not the lady’s property for her to sell. Of course, I should have declined to be involved. Instead I foolishly agreed to hold the jewels in safe keeping for a few days while I considered the matter.’ He smiled ruefully to himself at the memory. ‘The truth was that she was extraordinarily beautiful and I agreed to take in the jewels only because it meant I would see her again when she came to collect them. It was very naive of me.
‘Within days,’ he continued, ‘the loss of so important a collection of gems was noticed by their rightful owner – a duke who held high ministerial office – and my beautiful lady was promptly placed under suspicion and taken in by the police for questioning. I knew that, under pressure, she would reveal where the jewels would be found, and that put me in an impossible position.’
He looked across at his audience; all four of them were listening closely.
‘Have any of you heard of Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, by any chance?’
When no one answered, he got up and went across to his desk. Pulling open a drawer, he took out a book and held it up with a flourish. ‘Published fifteen years ago at the request of the Sun King himself. Here, Tavernier tells of his six voyages to the Orient dealing in precious stones. He bought, sold, bartered and made exceptional profits. Among his clients were kings, rajas, princes, the Great Mogul himself. Every jeweller and gem merchant in Paris read his book with envy.’
He replaced the book and closed the drawer. ‘For me, fearing any moment to hear the police hammering at my door, his book was an epiphany. I asked myself: why not pick up where Jean-Baptiste left off and use the beautiful lady’s jewels as my initial stock in trade? I would follow in his footsteps, take the collection east where it was unknown, sell or barter it piece by piece and become another Tavernier.’
His smile of satisfaction swept around all four of his listeners as he returned to his chair, and sat down.
‘So here I am: adviser and jewel expert at the court of the Great Mogul and confidant to a number of the most important omrahs.’
‘Didn’t the established gem dealers in Delhi resent your arrival?’ Hector asked.
Dufour gave him a sly look. ‘Of course. But I discovered that the chief among them had been less than honest with his principal client. He had passed off several flawed diamonds as being perfect. Jacques here will tell you that I have a good eye for the qualities of a gem.’
‘And not above telling a poor thief that what he’s stolen is defective or a fake made of hardened glass, when really it’s a perfect stone,’ Jacques observed sourly.
Dufour shrugged. ‘Professional expertise. Besides, the native gem cutters of Hindustan can be clumsy. They make errors, ruin perfectly good stones, and I’ve been able to show them some new techniques in cutting and polishing.’
He cocked his head on one side and fixed Jacques with a steady gaze. ‘And how about you, my friend? What brings you to Delhi with your companions?’
It took Jacques several minutes to explain what had happened since he, Hector and Jezreel had joined Avery’s crew aboard Fancy in Madagascar. When he described the attack on Ganj-i-Sawa’i, and Mayes’s ill-judged attempt to extract a ransom for the woman he believed to be Aurangzeb’s sister, Dufour shook his head in disbelief. ‘I like the sound of Captain Avery. He showed brains as well as imagination and courage. But Mayes is an idiot. If Aurangzeb’s people get their hands on him, something very unpleasant will happen to him.’
He paused to take a sip from his glass of wine and his voice took on a warning edge as he added, ‘The same is true for anyone they consider to be an accomplice.’
‘I have a supporting letter from the deputy governor of Diu,’ Hector told him. ‘It explains that my companions and I should not be held responsible for what happened on Ganj-i-Sawa’i. I’m to deliver it to omrah Nizamuddin and ask him to use his influence on our behalf. We’re staying at his residence, waiting for his return.’
Dufour pulled a face. ‘Omrah Nizamuddin isn’t going to be much help to you, I’m afraid.’
‘But we were told that he is a friend to foreigners.’
‘He is, and it’s tripped him up. When Aurangzeb first heard what happened on Ganj-i-Sawa’i, he flew into a rage. Seldom has anyone seen him so angry. Normally he keeps his face expressionless. But I have it on very good authority from an omrah who was at the meeting of the council that Aurangzeb went pale with anger. Nizamuddin made the mistake of speaking up, suggesting that it would be wise to wait for confirmation of the assault. Aurangzeb took off his slipper and hurled it at Nizamuddin’s head.’
Seeing his listeners were puzzled, he explained, ‘To be beaten with a shoe or have one hurled at you is the greatest insult possible. Nizamuddin immediately bowed to the ground, uttered an abject apology and backed out of the council chamber. He has not been seen since, and is unlikely to return to Delhi until this whole affair has blown over.’
‘And when will that be?’ Hector asked.
‘When Aurangzeb receives satisfaction from the English in Surat for what he considers a sacrilegious crime perpetrated by barbaric idolaters.’
Dufour crossed and uncrossed his long
legs, smoothing the layers of petticoats to make himself more comfortable. When he spoke again, his voice had a lecturer’s tone. ‘In Mogul law the extended family is held to be responsible for the misdeeds of any of its members. The pirates who savagely attacked Ganj-i-Sawa’i were mostly from England or her colonies. So Aurangzeb expects their countrymen in Surat to make amends and to pay the penalty. He has ordered the cancellation of all permits for trade issued to English merchants. They will not be renewed until the English authorities have caught and punished those pirates responsible. Further, the English are to pay damages, a sum equivalent to the value of all the goods stolen from Ganj-i-Sawa’i. The money is to be handed over to the imperial treasury because the ship was the personal property of the Great Mogul, a fact that your greedy captain Mayes worked out for himself.’
There was complete silence in the room when Dufour finished speaking. Hector had seldom seen Jacques and Jezreel look so taken aback. There was a hint of tears in Luis’s eyes and Hector guessed that the gem merchant’s bleak assessment had put an end to the young man’s hopes of ever achieving the status of a Mogul. ‘So what do you suggest we do next?’ he asked Dufour.
‘For a start, retrieve your baggage from where you left it at Nizamuddin’s and bring it here to this house. You’re better off to cut any connection with him. The floor above this one is empty and I own the lease. You can move in while I take soundings with some of the omrahs that I know, find out if someone else might help your case.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ Hector mumbled.
Dufour gave him a look that was both sympathetic and pitying. ‘If you live long enough, you’ll discover that Delhi is a clannish place. Afghans, Uzbeks, Persians, Turks – each group sticks together. Feringhees do the same. If we didn’t help one another we foreigners would be swallowed up by the whirlpool.’