"The Moghul" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoover Thomas)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Nadir Sharif leaned uneasily against the rooftop railing of his sprawling riverside palace, above the second-floor zenana, and absently watched his Kabuli pigeons wing past the curve of the Jamuna River, headed toward the Red Fort. They swept over the heavy battlements at the river gate and then veered precisely upward, along the sheer eastern wall of the fort, until they reached the gold minaret atop the Jasmine Tower, the private quarters of Queen Janahara. They circled her tower once, then coalesced into a plumed spear driving directly upward toward the dawn-tinged cloud bank that hovered over Agra from the east.

Imported Kabuli pigeons, with their flawless white eyes and blue-tipped wings, were Nadir Sharifs secret joy. Unlike the inferior local breeds of the other devoted pigeon-fliers along the west bank of the Jamuna, Agra's palace-lined showplace, his Kabulis did not flit aimlessly from rooftop to rooftop on their daily morning flight. After he opened the shutters on their rooftop grillwork cage, they would trace a single circle of his palace, next wing past the Red Fort in a salute to the queen, then simply disappear into the infinite for fully half a day, returning as regally as they had first taken wing.

Nadir Sharif was the prime minister of the Moghul empire, the brother of Queen Janahara, and the father of Prince Jadar's favorite wife, Mumtaz. Even in the first light of dawn there was no mistaking he was Persian and proud. The early sun glanced off his finely woven gauze cape and quickened a warm glow in the gold thread laced through his yellow cloak and his pastel morning turban. His quick eyes, plump face, and graying moustache testified to his almost sixty years of life, thirty spent at the Moghul court as close adviser to Arangbar and, before that, to Arangbar's father, the great empire-builder Akman. In power and authority he was exceeded only by the Moghul himself.

Nadir Sharifs palace was deliberately situated next to the Red Fort, just around the broad curve of the Jamuna. The Red Fort, home of the Moghul, was a vast, rambling fortress whose river side towered over a hundred feet above the western curve of the Jamuna. From Nadir Sharifs rooftop the view of the river side of the fort and Arangbar's darshan window was unobstructed.

Darshan was the dawn appearance Arangbar made daily at a special balcony in the east wall of the Red Fort, next to the river gate. It was strict custom that the chief officials of Arangbar's court also appear daily, on a high platform just beneath the darshan balcony, where along with the Moghul they greeted the well-wishers who streamed in through the river gate and provided visual confirmation that India's rule was intact.

The square below the balcony-a grassy expanse between the side of the fort and the river wall, where Arangbar held noontime elephant fights and, on Tuesdays, executions by specially trained elephants-had already filled almost to capacity. Agra's most prominent noblemen were there, as prudence required, and today there also were clusters of important visitors. Several Rajput chieftains from the northwest, astride prancing Arabian horses, passed regally through the river gate and assumed prominent positions. Then a path was cleared for a large embassy of Safavid Persian diplomats, each of whose palanquins was borne by four slaves in gleaming velvet liveries; next several desert Uzbek khans in leather headdress rode into the square; and finally three Portuguese Jesuits in black cassocks trooped through the river gate and moved imperiously to the front of the crowd.

Nadir Sharif watched as his pigeons were swallowed by the morning haze and then settled himself onto a canopied couch to observe darshan. The eunuchs of the zenana had whispered that this morning would be different, that there would be a precedent-shattering occurrence. For once a zenana rumor seemed all too plausible, and late the previous evening he had sent a dispatch through a qazi, a high judge, pleading illness and excusing himself from darshan. And now he had stationed himself to watch. How would the court officials react? Had they too heard the rumors? And what of those who had gathered below to salute Arangbar with the traditional teslim.

Most importantly, what of Nadir Sharif? This day could well be a turning point in the course of India's history… and in the three decades of his preeminence at court. If the rumors were true.

Nadir Sharif was easily the most accomplished courtier in India, a skill that had earned him the most splendid palace in Agra after the Moghul himself. His position brought with it not merely a palace, but also the mansab rank and jagir wealth required to maintain it. Only enormous wealth could sustain the hungry host of slaves, eunuchs, concubines, musicians, dancers, and wives who thronged his Agra palace.

Success for Nadir Sharif had always seemed so effortless, so inevitable, he often marveled that so few others had ever grasped the elementary secret. His simple formula for longevity, in a court where favorites daily rose and fell, was first to establish with certainty which side of a difference would inevitably triumph, and then to unveil his own supporting views.

He had made a lifelong habit of seeing everything. And saying almost nothing. He understood well that thoughts unsaid often served better than those voiced too hastly. Whereas the way of others might be flawed by a penchant for the zenana, or jewels, or those intoxicants the Prophet ha so futilely prohibited, Nadir Sharifs sole worldly obsession was power-from which nothing, absolutely nothing, had ever turned his head. For a decade he had ruled the Moghul empire in all but name, forwarding to Arangbar only those petitions he favored, holding in advisement any he opposed, counseling the Moghul at every turn-but always through other, unsuspecting voices if the advice was anything save disguised flattery.

His meticulous attention to affairs at court did not exclude foreign trade. For years his voice had been raised against any who counseled Arangbar in directions adverse to Portuguese interests. This attention did not pass unnoticed in Goa, and when a kingly jewel was sent to Arangbar, another of only slightly inferior dimensions always found its way into the hands of Nadir Sharif.

The first rays of sun struck the hard ocher sandstone of the Red Fort's east wall and suddenly it glowed like an inflamed ruby, throwing its warmth across the face of the Jamuna River. Moments later the heightening sun illuminated the rooftops of Agra, a sea of red tile and thatch that spread out in a wide arc west of the fort.

Agra, the capital of Moghul India, was one of the great cities of the East. It was home to over half a million, more than lived in any capital of Europe, and some said a man on horseback could scarcely circle it in a day. Yet most of the city was far from grand. It was a jumble of two-story brick and tile merchant houses, clay-faced homes of Hindu tradesmen, and a spreading sea of mud and thatch one-room hovels that sheltered the rest.

But along the river on either side of the Red Fort had been created a different world. There glistened the mansions of Moghul grandees like Nadir Sharif, magical and remote, behind whose walls lay spacious gardens cooled by marble fountains and gilded rooms filled with carpets from Persia, porcelains from China, imported crystal from Venice. Their zenanas thronging with exquisite, dark-eyed women, and their tapestried halls with hosts of slaves and eunuchs.

Nadir Sharif inhaled the clean air of morning and surveyed the palaces on either side along the riverbank. They were all sumptuous, but none more than his own. A vainer man might have swelled with pride at such a moment, but Nadir Sharif knew from years of court experience that vanity always led, inevitably, to excess, and finally to debt and ruin. To keep one's place, he often told himself, one must know it. He also knew that to hold one's ground, one must know when to shift.

His reverie was abruptly dispelled by the noise of shuffling feet, and then a hesitant voice.

"A man is at the outer gate, Sharif Sahib, asking to see you."

Nadir Sharif turned to see the eunuch's spotless white turban bowing toward him. He flared inwardly that his orders for absolute privacy had been ignored, and then, as always, he waited a few seconds for composure before speaking.

"I'm too ill to receive. Have you already forgotten my orders?"

"Forgive me, Sharif Sahib." The eunuch bowed ever lower and raised his clasped palms in involuntary supplication. "He has demanded an audience. He claimed he has arrived last night from the Deccan. He was with the prince…"

Nadir Sharifs body tensed perceptibly. "What name did he give?"

"A Rajput name, Sharif Sahib. He said he was requested by Her Highness, the princess, to report to you immediately on arriving."

Nadir Sharifs heart skipped a beat. Does this mean the English feringhi has arrived? Allah! On this of all days.

"Tell him I am at home." The voice was coolly matter-of-fact.

The eunuch bowed again and disappeared without a word. As Nadir Sharif watched his skirt vanish past the doorway tapestry, he tried to clear his mind and decide quickly what now must be done. Instinctively he turned once more to monitor the darshan balcony. Still nothing. Then he smiled fleetingly, realizing that the fate of the Englishman would depend very much on what happened at darshan this very morning.

The visitor appeared, in freshly brushed red turban and jeweled earrings, and wordlessly strode past the eunuch at the doorway, pushing the partially opened tapestry aside as though a foe in battle. There was about the man the haughty carriage and contemptuous eyes always encountered among Rajputs in high places, and Nadir Sharif recognized him immediately. The prime minister also knew this particular Rajput had never trusted him, and never would.

"Nimaste, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao's salaam was correct but cold. "It's always a pleasure to see you."

"When did you arrive?"

"Last evening."

"Have you arranged lodgings for the English feringhi? Even before informing me you were here?"

"He has no lodgings yet, Sharif Sahib, only rooms at a guest house. The feringhi insisted no one be informed of his arrival. He did not say why." Vasant Rao returned Nadir Sharifs expressionless stare. "The prince's orders were to honor the feringhi's requests whenever possible."

Nadir Sharifs face betrayed none of his anger as he turned again toward the darshan balcony. A flock of vagrant pigeons darted overhead, following the line of palaces along the river.

"How is the child?"

"He is well formed, Sharif Sahib. Your daughter, Her Highness, was also well when I left Burhanpur. She gave me this dispatch for you."

Nadir Sharif accepted the bamboo tube and, controlling his expression, tossed it aside as though it were of no more consequence than a gardener's report brought by a eunuch. "I've received no pigeons from her for four weeks. Only official dispatches from Ghulam Adl's secretary in Burhanpur, which tell nothing. Why isn't he in the field with Jadar? What is happening?"

"I'm not with the army now, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao casually stroked his moustache. "Perhaps the prince has ordered secrecy to protect his movements toward the south."

Nadir Sharif started to reply, but immediately thought better of it. Instead he traced his finger along the railing of the balcony in silence and seemed to listen to the distant pigeons as he rotated the answer in his mind, knowing it was a lie and quickly evaluating the possible reasons why.

In the north, dispatching pigeons in the field might be a risk, but never in the south, where the infidel Deccanis always know the deployment of our army better than its own commanders. No. There's something planned that Jadar does not want me to know. Which can only mean His impulsive Highness, Prince Jadar has undertaken something foolish. I know him too well.

After a moment Nadir Sharif broke the silence, without turning his face from the darshan balcony.

"Tell me about the feringhi."

"Do you mean what he says? Or what I think about him?"

"Both."

"He claims to be an ambassador for the English king, but his only credentials are a letter he brings, said to request a trading firman from His Majesty."

"What are the intentions of this feringhi king? Trade, or eventual meddling?"

"No one has seen the letter, Sharif Sahib, but the Englishman says his king merely asks to trade yearly at Surat."

"Which means the English must again contest with the Portuguese. Until one of them eventually abandons our ports. They cannot both trade. The Portuguese Viceroy would never allow it."

"What you say seems true. It's said the Christians in Europe are having a holy war. I don't understand the cause, but the English and the Portuguese seem to be historic enemies because of it. However, the Englishman claims their disputes in Europe are now over, and that the Portuguese attack on his ships was in violation of a treaty of peace recently signed. Whether this is actually true no one knows. The English ships are gone now, but if they come again, who can say what will happen."

"Will they come again?" Nadir Sharifs eyes told nothing of his thoughts, but his voice sharpened. "Soon?"

"The Englishman has not said. Perhaps next year. Perhaps before that." Vasant Rao caught the inflection in Nadir Sharif's voice, and it triggered a chain of improbable possibilities.

"Goa will never allow them open access to Surat. There must be war on our seas if the English return." Nadir Sharif paused for a moment and then continued. "Who do you think will triumph?"

"Ask those who claim the gift of prophecy, Sharif Sahib. I'm only a soldier."

"That's why I asked you."

"I can only say that if other English are like this man, then they are a determined race. He seems to seek the new because it is there, yet perhaps not knowing what he will do with it once it is his."

"What do you mean?"

"The Englishman, Hawksworth. He claims to be here for his king and his king only. But I sense this is only partly true. He is a man of complex desires."

"Then why is he here?"

"I think he is here also for himself. He wants something."

"Perhaps it's to make war on the Portuguese?"

"He will not shrink from it. But I think his own coming to India is to find something. He is searching, for what I cannot say. He is a man of curious parts. He spoke once of spending time in prison. And he is devoted to playing a small stringed instrument. He understands the tongue of the Moghuls, and he questions all he sees. He is beginning to know India, because he has made it his purpose to know India. If he stays, he could become very troubling for the Portuguese."

"And will that bring no good to affairs here?" Nadir Sharif paused. "Will it?"

"I do not follow matters of state, Sharif Sahib."

Nadir Sharif let the silence swell, then in a voice brittle as ice he spoke.

"Why did the prince meet with him?"

Vasant Rao tried without success to mask his surprise. Lord Krishna, they know everything in Agra.

"There was a meeting." Vasant Rao hesitated, then decided to maintain discretion. "But neither spoke of it afterwards."

Nadir Sharif studied him, pondering if it were true. Then he turned to glance at the darshan balcony as he spoke.

"The Moghul has demanded that the English feringhi be brought to durbar immediately after he arrives."

"Does that mean today?" Vasant Rao shifted with surprise.

"His Majesty will hear soon enough he has arrived. There is no choice."

"Then the feringhi must be told to prepare, Sharif Sahib. He has a chest containing gifts, and the letter."

"I know what he has. Tell him he must bring the gifts to durbar. For his sake I hope they're not trifles. His Majesty is most anxious to see them."

And the queen is even more anxious to see the letter, Nadir Sharif told himself. Then he smiled as he realized he would see it first.

It will be an interesting afternoon.

A fanfare of drums sounded faintly from the ramparts of the Red Fort, and for a moment the morning sun seemed to glow even brighter against the gleaming panels of the Jasmine Tower. Nadir Sharif turned toward the darshan balcony. From the shadow of its embroidered satin awning a figure had suddenly emerged. It was just possible to make out the man's glistening robe and his elaborate, patterned turban. Then the heavy jewels of his earrings momentarily caught the morning sunshine and sent streams of light flashing outward. All the waiting crowd bowed low, each man touching the back of his right hand to the ground and then bringing the palm to his forehead as he drew erect. It was the formal teslim given the Moghul, signifying each man's readiness to give himself as an offering.

Nadir Sharif scrutinized the scene carefully and drew an almost audible sigh of relief. Then he turned to Vasant Rao.

"Have you ever seen the Moghul at morning darshan? He continued on distractedly, neglecting to pause for an answer. "You know, it's actually a custom began by Akman, who worshiped the sun as one of the gods. But Arangbar appears in order to maintain his own authority. If he missed darshan for a day, rumors would begin he was dead. Three days and there would be anarchy."

Suddenly the cheers from the courtyard died abruptly. In the silence that followed, a single pigeon's cry could be heard from overhead. Nadir Sharif whirled to see a second figure now standing on the balcony beside Arangbar.

It was a dark-haired woman. He could not tell if she wore a veil, but her tiara of jewels glistened in the early sun. The color drained from Nadir Sharif's face as he watched.

So the rumor was true. For the first time in history, she has appeared beside him at darshan, to be worshiped equally.

Vasant Rao found himself staring in astonishment.

Queen Janahara. This is truly the beginning of the end for the prince. He will never see Agra again. Unless he's at the head of an army, or in chains.

"What does it mean?" Vasant Rao could think of nothing else to say.

"Times and fashions change. Perhaps it's a whim of His Majesty." Nadir Sharif did not turn his gaze from the balcony. He did not want Vasant Rao to see his eyes.

"Escort the feringhi to durbar today. He's not safe here alone."

"As you wish, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao paused and studied the back of Nadir Sharifs turban. "Do you have a message for the prince when I return?"

"Official channels will serve for any message I have to give the prince." The prime minister whirled with uncharacteristic abruptness. "That will be all. You would be wise to be out of Agra when the sun rises tomorrow."

As Vasant Rao made his way past the waiting eunuchs, Nadir Sharif turned once more to examine the darshan balcony. He watched in growing dismay as the courtiers on the platform began salaams to Queen Janahara, who now stood boldly at the forefront of the canopied marble portico.

Then he recalled the dispatch from Mumtaz.

A line of mounted Imperial guards cleared a pathway through the narrow street, now a midday throng of bullock carts, dark-skinned porters, ambling cattle, and black-veiled women balancing heavy brass pots atop their heads. Along both sides of the street tan awnings shielded lines of quick- eyed, bearded merchants, who squatted on their porches beckoning all to inspect their unprecedented bargains in cloth, reeds, betel leaves. Vendors sizzled flat bread in charcoal-fired round pans and dropped balls of brown dough into dark pots of smoking oil, seasoning the dusty air with piquant spice. Above the clatter of their horses' hooves came a cacophony of street Hindi, squeaking cart wheels, children's discordant piping.

Between the open shops were ornate doorways, framed in delicate plasterwork scallops, leading upward to overhead balconies supported by red sandstone brackets. Behind the latticework screens that fronted these balconies-some carved rosewood, some filigreed marble-Hawksworth could see clusters of idle women chewing betel and fanning themselves as they leaned forward to inspect the procession below.

Hawksworth studied the helmeted guards around him, whose ornate shields bore the Moghurs personal seal, and reflected on his introduction to Agra. His caravan from the south had arrived at the city's outskirts the evening before, after the sun's light had died away, and as he requested, Vasant Rao had found a traditional guest house for them. It was near the center of town, inconspicuous, and its primary amenities were a rainproof thatch roof and a stone floor. Tomorrow, the Rajput had told him, he must find a house befitting an ambassador.

The guards accompanying them into Agra had not even dismounted, had turned back immediately for the south, and only Vasant Rao stayed to share the evening meal. They had dined quickly on fried bread and lentils and afterward the Rajput had retrieved his saddle from the stable and, pillowing it under his helmet, immediately fallen asleep, curved sword in hand. Hawksworth had lain awake listening to the night sounds of Agra, wondering what his next move should be. Sleep finally overtook him just before dawn broke.

He awoke to discover Vasant Rao already gone. But the Rajput had mysteriously returned in time to share a breakfast of more fried bread and spiced curds. After eating, Vasant Rao had announced that Arangbar expected him in durbar that afternoon. The rest of the morning had been spent hastily procuring bearers for his chest of gifts and cleaning the mildewed doublet and hose he had been instructed by the Company to wear. Just after noon, a contingent of the Moghul's personal guard had arrived unexpectedly with orders to escort them through the center of Agra, directly to the Moghul's private entrance to the Red Fort.

Their horses emerged abruptly from the narrow, jostling street and Hawksworth realized they had entered a wide, sunlit plaza opening outward from the fort's south gate. The close, acrid smells of the town were immediately scourged by the searing midday heat. Hawksworth reined in his horse and stared at the fort, incredulous at its immensity.

They were facing two concentric walls of polished red sandstone, the outer easily forty feet high and the inner at least seventy. Both were obviously thick, with battlements loop-holed for musketry and crowned by rampart-ways. A wide wooden drawbridge leading to the entrance spanned a thirty-foot, water-filled moat that followed the outer wall in both directions as far as the eye could see.

It had to be the largest, most powerfully built fortress Hawksworth had ever seen. No story he had heard, no imagined grandeur, had prepared him for this first view. The sight was at once awesome and chilling.

No wonder the Moghul frightens all of India. It's impregnable. The outer blocks of the walls seem to be linked by massive iron rings and the round towers spaced along them have slots designed for heavy ordnance. With two thick walls, which probably also have a moat between, it would be impossible to storm. And cannon would be almost useless.

Vasant Rao monitored Hawksworth's reaction, and his dark eyes betrayed his pride. "Do you understand now why the Moghul is held in such regard? No king in the world could have a palace as grand as this. Did you know that the distance around the walls is over one kos. What would that be? Around two of your English miles?"

Hawksworth nodded assent as their guards led them directly across the wide drawbridge and through a passageway. The outer edge of the drawbridge was connected by heavy chains to rollers at the top of the entryway. The two rollers worked in a stone channel cut upward into the steep walls of the passage and were held in place by iron bars inserted into the channel. The bridge would lift automatically by simple removal of the iron bars. Around them now was a small, heavily defended barbican and ahead, between the outer and inner wall, was a gateway set in a towering portal almost eighty feet high that was faced with gleaming blue enamel tiles.

"How many gates like this are there?"

"The Red Fort actually has four gates, one on the river and one on each of the other sides. This is the southern gate, which the Moghul recently renamed the Amar Singh Gate"-Vasant Rao lowered his voice-"after a defiant Rajput who he murdered. I have never seen it before, but it is even more beautiful than the public Delhi Gate, on the north, which is inlaid marble. The Red Fort is truly astonishing. Tell me, Captain, is there anything in your England to compare?"

"Nothing." Hawksworth seached for his voice. "Why is it so large?"

"This is the place where India is governed. And the Moghul does not live alone. He has to house over a thousand women, an army to protect him and his treasury, and more servants than man can count." The Rajput seemed momentarily puzzled by the question. Then he continued with a sly smile. "The fort was built by the Moghul's father, the great Akman. People say it required over eight years to complete. He also built another complete city in the desert a few kos west of here, but later he abandoned it and moved back to Agra. Surely your English king governs from a palace."

"His Majesty, King James, has a palace at Hampton Court." Hawksworth paused. "But England is governed by laws made in Parliament, which has its own place to meet."

"It sounds like you have a very weak king. Captain Hawksworth, if he cannot rule." Vasant Rao glanced nervously at the guards. "You would do well not to tell that to Arangbar. In India there is only one law, the word of the Moghul."

As they entered the portico of the Amar Singh Gate, Hawksworth glanced behind him, relieved to see that their porters still followed, one at each side of his sea chest. Vasant Rao had cautioned him not to deliver all the gifts at once, since Arangbar would expect a new gift each time they met. King James's letter he carried personally, carefully secreted inside his doublet.

Inside the archway of the gate were sets of thick wooden doors, opened back against the sides. These inner doors bristled with long iron spikes, and as Hawksworth puzzled over them, Vasant Rao caught his questioning look.

"Those spikes embedded in the doors are to prevent war elephants from battering them in with their foreheads. It's common in a fortress." He smiled. "But then I keep forgetting your England probably has no elephants."

Ahead, at the terminus of the archway, the path was blocked by a heavy chain and armed sentries. The guards reined in their horses and began to dismount, while their leader passed brusque orders to Vasant Rao.

"We ride no farther," Vasant Rao translated as he swung from the saddle. "He says no one except the Moghul himself, his sons, or his women is allowed to ride through the Amar Singh Gate. It's strictly enforced."

Hawksworth paused one last time, feeling about him the weight of the thick walls and the ornate tower rising above them, a great blue jewel in the afternoon sun. For a moment he had the curious sensation of entering a giant tomb. He took a deep breath and slowly dismounted, feeling suddenly conspicuous in his formal silk hose and ruffled doubtlet.

Vasant Rao passed the reins of his horse to a waiting servant and drew alongside, his eyes intent. "Does it seem strange to you that the Moghul would name one of the four gates to the Red Fort after a Rajput?" He stroked the curl of his moustache, and lowered his voice. "It's a story you should hear. It's not meant as an honor."

"What do you mean?"

"It's intended to be a warning to all Rajputs of what happens when he is defied. There was, several years ago, a Rajput adventurer named Amar Singh. He sought to rise to position in Arangbar's court-he eventually did rise to the rank of a thousand horse-and along the way he asked and received the help of an old courtier who had influence. Only later did the Rajput find out that this man expected his younger daughter in payment." Vasant Rao smile wryly. "They say she was incredibly beautiful. Well, Amar Singh was a true Rajput, and he was outraged. Naturally he refused. So the courtier who had helped him decided to have revenge, and he went to Arangbar and told him about a certain beautiful Rajput girl who would make an excellent addition to the zenana. The Moghul immediately sent some of his personal guards to Amar Singh's house to take the girl. When Amar Singh realized why the guards had come, he called for the girl and stabbed her to death before their eyes. Then he took horse and rode to the Red Fort, even riding through this gate. He rode into the audience hall and demanded that Arangbar appear and explain. Such things, Captain, are simply not done in Agra. The moment he dismounted he was cut to pieces by a dozen of Arangbar's guards. Then the Moghul decided to name this gate after him, to remind all Rajputs of his fate. But he need not have bothered. No Rajput will ever forget."

Leaving the servants with their horses, they proceeded on foot up a wide, inclined path that led through an enclosed square. Around the sides of the square were porticoes and galleries, where horsemen with swords and pikes waited.

"Those men are on their chauki, their seventh-day watch." Vasant Rao pointed to the porticoes. "Every soldier in Agra must stand watch once every seven days. Either here or in the large square inside, where we're going. It's the Moghul's law."

They passed through another large gate and suddenly a half dozen turbaned guards, in leather armor and wearing long curved swords, drew alongside, as though expecting them. Now with a double escort they began the ascent of a long walkway, perhaps twenty paces wide, situated between two high brick walls. Hawksworth's leather shoes padded against the square paving stones, which had been striated to permit easy footing for the Moghurs horses and elephants. As they reached the end, they emerged into another large court, comprising the southeast corner of the fort.

Ahead was yet a fourth gate. As they passed through, Hawksworth realized it was protected by more mounted horsemen in the recessed lower porticoes, and archers in elevated galleries. They walked past the wide wooden doors and into a vast milling square. It was several hundred feet on the side and ringed with arcades where still more mounted horsemen waited. A wide roadway divided the square.

"This is the quadrangle. I only saw it once before, but then I entered from the public side." Vasant Rao indicated an identical gate, directly opposite. "Over there."

The guards directed them toward a large multicolored silk canopy fanning out from the tall buildings on their right. The area beneath the canopy was cordoned off from the square by a red velvet railing, and porters with cudgels stood around the perimeter. Vasant Rao seemed increasingly nervous as their escorts led them forward, past the guards at the entry to the canopy. Hawksworth noticed that the air beneath the canopy was heavy with incense-ambergris and aloe-burning in gold and silver censers hanging from poles.

"The arcade ahead is the Diwan-i-Am, the Hall of Public Audience, where the Moghul holds his daily durbar." Vasant Rao pointed toward the steps that led upward to a large open pavilion at the far end of the canopy. It was several stories high and over a hundred feet on each side. The roof was borne by marble arches supported by rows of white columns. "No man with rank under five hundred horse is allowed to enter inside the railing. I think that's why we have a special escort."

Above the crowd, at the far end of the hall, was a raised platform of white marble, standing about three feet from the floor and covered by its own tapestried canopy. The platform was surrounded by a silver railing, and several turbaned men holding rolls of documents were now struggling to gain a position at the rail. All around them the crowd buzzed with anticipation.

Behind and above the platform, in a marble gallery set in the wall, rested an immense throne carved from black marble. At its four corners were life-sized statues of rearing lions, each spangled with jewels, which supported in their silver paws a canopy of pure gold. The walls on either side of the throne were latticework marble screens, through which the zenana women could watch.

"I've never seen the throne this close before. It's famous." Vasant Rao paused. "And there are some in Agra who would sell their brother to have it."

The Imperial guards suddenly saluted, fists against their leather shields, turned and marched down the steps of the Diwan-i-Am and back into the square. Vasant Rao watched them disappear into the crowd and then he shook the left sleeve of his riding cloak and a naked katar, the deadly "tiger knife" all Rajputs carried, dropped into his hand. Its handle was a gold-plated grip between two prongs, designed to be held in the fist and thrust directly forward. Without a word he slipped it into a sheath secured in the sash of his belt.

Hawksworth pretended not to notice and instead turned to examine the crowd. Next to them an assembly of Persian diplomats, wearing heavy robes and jewel-encrusted turbans, eyed Hawksworth's plain doublet and hose with open contempt. The air was thick was sweat and incense and the sparkle of gold and jewels.

Uniformed servants sounded a drum roll on two large brass kettles at the back of the throne and the velvet curtains behind the throne parted. Two guards with gold-handled swords entered briskly and stood at attention, one on either side of the parted curtains.

Hawksworth felt his pulse surge as the next figure entered through the curtains.

He was of middle height, with a small moustache and glistening diamond earrings. He wore a tight patterned turban, a blue robe secured by a gold brocade sash, jeweled rings on both hands, and a massive string of pearls. A golden-handled sword and dagger were at his waist, and two feline cubs frisked by his side. Hawksworth studied them in confusion, and after a moment realized they must be baby lions, an animal famous in English folklore but never actually seen firsthand by anyone in England.

At that instant a din of kettledrums erupted from galleries at the sides of the square. Almost as one those waiting called out a salaam, bent forward, and touched the back of their right hand to the ground and then to their forehead as they drew erect. The durbar of the Moghul had begun.

"You did not perform the teslim." Vasant Rao turned to Hawksworth with dismay in his voice. "He may have taken note of it. That was unwise, my friend."

"An ambassador for a king doesn't prostrate himself."

"You're new to India. That may be taken as an excuse. The other ambassadors here know better."

As they watched, three other men slowly emerged from behind the throne and took their places on the marble platform, standing beside the Moghul. They all wore jeweled turbans and each had a sash of gold cloth about the waist. Hawksworth turned to Vasant Rao in time to see a look of hatred flash through his eyes.

"Who are they?"

"The two younger men are his sons. I saw them once before in Agra. It's traditional that his sons join him at the durbar when they are here. The younger one is Allaudin. He will be married next month to Queen Janahara's daughter. The other one is his drunken brother Parwaz. The older man is Zainul Beg, the Moghurs wazir, his chief counsel. He's the father of Nadir Sharif, the prime minister, and he's also the father of Queen Janahara."

Hawksworth watched as yet another man emerged through the curtain, walked casually past the throne, and was helped onto the marble platform directly in front. He turned to the silver rail, where a dozen petitions were immediately thrust up to him.

Vasant Rao nudged Hawksworth and pointed. "And that's Nadir Sharif, the prime minister. Remember him well. No one reaches the Moghul without his consent."

The prime minister paused to study the faces below, and then reached out for a petition. He unrolled it, scanned it quickly, and turned to Arangbar, passing it upward with a comment only those by the throne could hear. The business of the day was underway.

Arangbar listened with obvious boredom as one petition after another was set before him. He held counsel with his sons and with the wazir, and frequently he would turn to the marble screen off the right side of the throne and discuss a petition with someone waiting behind it.

Below the platform several ambassadors shuffled, trying to mask their impatience. Hawksworth suddenly realized that the jewel-encrusted boxes they held, many of beaten gold, contained presents for the Moghul. He looked at his own leatherbound wooden chest, shabby by comparison, and his heart began to sink.

After a short while, the Moghul seemed to lose patience with the petitions and, ignoring the waiting nobles, abruptly signaled for a review of the day's elephant troops. Moments later, a line of war elephants entered through the public gate and began to march single-file across the back of the square. Their tusks were wreathed with gold bands and they wore coverings of embroidered cloth which were strung with tinkling bells and tassels of Tibetan yak hair. As each reached a spot directly in front of the Diwan-i-Am it stopped, kneeled, and trumpeted to Arangbar.

When the last elephant had passed, drums were sounded again and a group of eight men came into the square leading a snarling beast by heavy chains attached to its iron collar. It was tawny, with a heavy mane and powerful paws, and it roared out its displeasure as it writhed and clawed at the chains.

Hawksworth took one look and realized it was a fully-grown male lion.

"That seems to be His Majesty's new toy." Vasant Rao pointed nervously. "He collects lions as pets. That one must have just been captured."

Arangbar studied the lion with obvious delight. Then he bent down and stroked one of the cubs by his side, lifting it to better view the new prize. The assembly watched spellbound for a moment, then burst into cheers.

As Hawksworth watched, Arangbar set down the lion cub and spoke with his wazir. Zainul Beg stared into the crowd and then pointed. Moments later the black cassock of a Jesuit appeared at the railing. With a start Hawksworth recognized Father Alvarez Sarmento, last seen in the courtyard of Mukarrab Khan's palace in Surat. The Jesuit listened to the wazir's instructions and then turned to the crowd. His announcement was in English.

"His Majesty orders the ambassador from England to come forward."

Vasant Rao touched Hawksworth's arm and reached out to clasp his hand.

"This is your moment, my friend. By the time durbar is through I will be far from here."

"Why are you leaving?" Hawksworth turned and looked into his eyes, suddenly realizing that Vasant Rao was the closest thing he had to a friend in India.

"It's impossible for me to stay longer." Vasant Rao paused, and Hawksworth sensed his warmth was genuine. Suddenly the Rajput reached into the sash at his belt and drew out his sheathed katar. "You saved my life once, in the village, and I've never found the words to thank you. Perhaps this can say it for me. Take it as a token of friendship from a Rajput. It was given to me by my father, and it has tasted blood more times than I can count. You're a brave and honest man, and I think we'll meet again."

Before Hawksworth could speak, Vasant Rao embraced him warmly and melted into the crowd.

A pathway was clearing through the glaring nobles, and Hawksworth quickly slipped the katar into his doublet as he leaned over to secure the chest. When he reached the silver railing, Sarmento was waiting.

"Let me welcome you to Agra, Captain." The Jesuit spoke quietly in English, his face a hard mask. "I pray God gave you a pleasant journey."

"I thought you were bound for Lahore."

"In time, Captain, in time. But we have an Agra mission as well. Our flock here grows. It must be tended. And do you remember what we agreed that night in Surat?"

"Translate for the Inglish ambassador." Arangbar's voice interrupted, speaking in Persian. "I would know his name."

"He asks your name." Sarmento spoke quietly to Hawksworth in English. "You must bow when you give it."

"I am Captain-General Brian Hawksworth, ambassador of His Majesty, King James the First of England." Hawksworth replied in Turkish, trying to remember the speech he had been told to deliver. A look of delighted surprise flashed through Arangbar's eyes. Hawksworth bowed and then continued. "His Majesty, King James, has asked me to convey his friendship to His Most Noble Majesty, Arangbar, Moghul of India, together with certain unworthy tokens of his regard." Hawksworth tried to think quickly of a way to explain the unimpressive gifts King James had sent. "Those trifles he sends are not intended as gifts deserving of Your Majesty, for that would be a bounty no single man could deliver. Instead he has asked me to bring certain common products of our country, not as gifts, for they are too unworthy, but as samples of English workmanship that Your Majesty may examine personally the goods he offers your merchants in trade. These are the first of many, more-worthy gifts he is now assembling for Your Majesty, to be sent on future voyages to your land."

"You speak the tongue of the Moghuls, Ambassador. Already your king does me honor. I welcome you in his name." Arangbar leaned forward to watch as Hawksworth opened the clasp on the chest.

The first items were samples of English woolens, lace, and brocade, crafted into doublets. Hawksworth laid these aside and took out a silver-trimmed brace of pistols, a gold- handled sword, an hourglass in carved ivory, and finally a gold whistle studded with small diamonds. The Moghul peered down from his marble throne impassively, and then called for them to be brought to him.

While he examined each gift briefly, assessing it with a quick glance and calling for the next, Hawksworth reached into the corner of the box and withdrew the next present, a three-cornered English hat topped with a feather. When Arangbar saw the hat his eyes brightened.

"At last I can look like a topiwallah." He pushed aside the other gifts and called for the hat. He turned it in his hand for a moment, then removed his jeweled turban and clapped it on his head with delight.

"The feringhi hat is a puzzling invention, Ambassador Khawksworth." Arangbar stumbled over the pronunciation of the name as he signaled for a mirror. "What purpose it serves I have never understood. You, I observe, do not wear one yourself."

"Hats are not to my taste, may it please Your Majesty." Hawksworth bowed again and then continued. "His Majesty, King James of England, also has asked me to deliver a portrait of himself to Your Majesty, together with letter expressing his desire for friendship between your land and his." Hawksworth produced a small framed watercolor from the wooden chest. It was a miniature on vellum, scarcely more than an inch square, by Isaac Oliver, a celebrated artist from the school of Nicholas Hilliard, who had been fashionable under Queen Elizabeth. While Arangbar examined the painting, scrutinizing the workmanship as might a connoisseur, Hawksworth reached into his doublet and withdrew the letter. It was passed to Nadir Sharif, who presented it to Arangbar.

The Moghul reluctantly handed the portrait to Allaudin, then inspected the leather binding of the letter. Finally he broke the red wax seal and began to study the writing, a quizzical expression spreading over his face.

"The seal and script are worthy of a king. But it is in a language of Europe."

"There are two copies, Your Majesty. One in English, the language of my king, and one in Spanish, a language something like the Portugals speak."

"Then we will have Father Sarmento translate."

Sarmento moved to the silver railing and took the leatherbound letter with a distasteful expression. He examined it for a moment and then began to read it silently, the color slowly draining from his face.

"What message does your king send, Ambassador?"

"His admiration for Your Majesty, whose reputation has reached even Europe. And his offer of full and open trade between your nation and his."

"The letter is basely penned, Your Majesty." Sarmento's face was red with dismay as he turned to Arangbar. "Its style is unworthy of a great prince."

Arangbar examined the Jesuit with a troubled gaze and shifted on his throne.

"May it please Your Majesty, this man is the enemy of England." Hawksworth pointed at Sarmento. "How can my king's letter be ill-penned, when he entreats Your Majesty's friendship?"

Arangbar paused a moment and then he smiled broadly. "A reasonable reply. The Inglish, I see, are a blunt-spoken race." He glanced at Sarmento. "And we have already seen their seamanship."

"Your words honor my king, Your Majesty." Hawksworth found himself bowing again and wondering how to respond.

"We would hear more of England. Is it large?"

"Not nearly as large as India, Your Majesty. It is an island, but the queen of all the islands of the West."

"It is a rocky, barren speck in the great seas of Europe, Your Majesty," Sarmento interjected himself, straining to hold his composure. "A breeder of drunken fishermen and pirates. Its king is a heretic, a sovereign of lawless privateers and an enemy of the Holy Church."

"It is a noble land, Your Majesty, ruled by a free king, not by a Spanish tyrant or an Italian pope, like the land of the Portugals. Our cannon are the best in the world, our ships the swiftest, our men the bravest. No flag but our own has ever flown above our soil. Our ships have sailed all the seas of the world, from the East to the West. My king's seamen have explored the seas north of England, searching for a northeast passage to the Indies, and the Americas, searching for a northwest passage. Off your own shores we have met the galleons of Portugal, as Your Majesty must know, and in the West Indies we have challenged and overcome the carracks of Papist Spain. There brave English captains named Hawkins and Drake stood off Spaniards ten times their number. The very name of England strikes fear in the heart of a Portugal or a Spaniard."

Arangbar toyed with the jeweled whistle as he listened. "Your England interests us, Ambassador Khawksworth." He paused for a moment and reviewed the small, dispiriting assemblage of gifts. "We would know when your king's next voyage will be."

"Very soon, may it please Your Majesty." Hawksworth squirmed, and noticed Nadir Sharif suddenly edge closer to listen.

"But your king must send out voyages regularly? We have heard of the English traders in our southern seas. Do you not know when the next voyage will be, or what gifts your king is preparing? Surely he will send them this year?"

"May it please Your Majesty"-Hawksworth fumbled with the railing, trying to gain time-"I…"

Prince Parwaz suddenly plucked at Arangbar's arm and pointed into the crowd. A tall bearded man with a vast turban and two ornate swords at his side had moved next to the silver railing, near Hawksworth, holding a petition in his hand.

"He is the man I spoke of yesterday." Parwaz spoke in Turki, and his words seemed slurred. Hawksworth realized he was tipsy. "I told him to bring his petition today personally. He's a commander with the rank of a thousand horse. His stipend is eight thousand rupees a month. He claims he has served honorably, most recently in the siege of Qandahar, but that he must resign his mansab and dismiss his men and horse unless his stipend is increased."

Arangbar examined the man for a moment, then addressed him in Turki.

"What is your name and rank?"

"I am Amanat Mubarik, Your Majesty. I maintain a thousand horse, the finest Arabian blood in India." The man stood straight and spoke with a loud, clear voice.

"Is not your stipend the amount prescribed any man who maintains that number?"

"It is, Your Highness. But I am not any man. I am a Pathan, and my father was Fath Shah. No enemy of Your Majesty has ever seen the back of my shield. His Highness, Prince Parwaz, saw me defend the royal encampment five years ago when he moved south of the Narbada. With my cavalry I held position when all others called for retreat. I challenge any man here today to do me battle in your presence. With any weapon. On horseback or on foot. Then you may decide if I am as other men."

The Moghul examined him carefully for a long moment.

"If you are not like other men, then I will let you prove it." Arangbar pointed beyond the marble porticoes. "Will you fight with the lion?"

The Pathan commander turned and stared blankly into the sunlit square, where the captured lion was snarling and pawing at its chains.

"A lion is a wild beast, Your Majesty. What trial is it for a man to contest with a lion?"

"I think it would be the best trial of all." Arangbar's eyes began to glow.

"A beast has no understanding, Majesty." He shifted nervously as he realized Arangbar was not jesting. "It's not a fit thing for a man to fight."

"You will joust with him." The fancy seemed to flood Arangbar with pleasure, and he turned abruptly to one of the guards. "Give him a glove and a truncheon. That should suffice for a man who claims bravery above all others."

Hawksworth watched in disbelief as the dazed commander was led from the Diwan-i-Am and into the quadrangle. A murmur of amazement passed through the crowd.

The square cleared quickly as the lion was brought forward by its keepers. Still incredulous, the Pathan slowly pulled the heavy glove onto his left hand, then he took the truncheon, no more than a foot and a half long, in his right. Guards took his swords and turban and in moments he and the lion were faced off in the afternoon sunshine.

Hawksworth forced himself to watch as the commander began to spar with the lion, a young male with powerful claws. He managed to cudgel the lion several times, with the effect that it became more enraged than harmed. Then with a roar it sprang, pulling free of its keepers, and they went down together, rolling in the dust of the square.

The Pathan continued to bravely cudgel the lion, even while its claws ripped across his face and arms. Hawksworth watched the lion's hard tail whip for balance as it pawed again and again at the truncheon. Suddenly the man pulled free of its grasp and, with a wide arcing swing, brought the truncheon directly across the crown of the lion's head. Its rear haunches clawed upward spastically and then it pitched unconscious into the bloody dust, its body still twitching.

A cheer rose from the crowd of onlookers as the Pathan slowly drew himself erect. Hawksworth realized that the right side of his face had been completely ripped away by the lion's sharp claws. He made a few halting steps toward the Diwan-i-Am, wheeled dizzily, and collapsed in a pool of blood. He was dead by the time the guards reached him.

Arangbar had watched in spellbound delight. He clapped his hands and turned to Parwaz, whose glazed eyes seemed not to have fully comprehended the spectacle.

"Astounding. I never knew a man could kill a lion with a mere club. He was braver than he knew. If he has sons, I will allow them to keep half his estate." Arangbar turned to the guard captain standing by the curtained entrance. "Tomorrow select ten of your best men and we will bring more lions. What better test of bravery?"

The uniformed men standing at attention around the perimeter of the Diwan-i-Am all blanched but their eyes remained fixed straight ahead. Then Arangbar suddenly remembered Hawksworth.

"Does England have men as brave as ours, Ambassador?"

Hawksworth felt a cold sweat in his palms.

"No man in England would dare challenge one of Your Majesty's lions."

Arangbar laughed loudly. Before he could respond, the wazir was whispering in his ear. He glanced at the marble screen directly behind his throne and nodded. Then he turned to Hawksworth.

"We are called away, Ambassador. I'm told I must take my afternoon rest. This is the time of day I retire to the zenana for one pahar." He winked and gestured toward the marble screen. "Her Majesty rules our time. But I want to speak more with you today about this island of England. And about your king's schedule for trade. You will attend me in the Diwan-i-Khas this evening."

"As Your Majesty pleases."

As Arangbar rose his eye caught the painting. He picked it up and scrutinized it, then turned to Hawksworth.

"Is this a fair example of Inglish painting?"

"It came from the school of a celebrated artist, Your Majesty. His Majesty, King James, sat to have it painted especially for you." Hawksworth sensed that Arangbar had taken more interest in the painting than in any of the other gifts, except perhaps the hat. "The painters of England are the finest in the world."

The Moghul stirred slightly and then summoned a small, wiry man with heavy brows from the first row of courtiers. He briskly moved to the front and salaamed to Arangbar. The Moghul passed the painting to him and together they studied it, conversing quietly in Persian. Then Arangbar turned to Hawksworth.

"We have a school of artists here in the palace, Ambassador Khawksworth. This man, who directs the school, says this portrait's background is too dark, the eyes lifeless. And it is neither three-quarter nor full face, as is our proven convention. Consequently it gives no sense of your king's depth of character." Arangbar smiled. "He also says the portraits he and his men execute are far more difficult. They catch the soul of the man, not merely his physical likeness."

"May it please Your Majesty, I cannot accept what he says."

Arangbar translated to the artist, who replied quickly in Persian, casting a quick, contemptuous glance at Hawksworth.

"He declares he could easily duplicate this simple portrait of your king, in a likeness so exact you could not tell his copy from the original."

"Such a thing is not possible, Your Majesty. No man in the world could execute this exact painting, save the man who first put in on paper."

Arangbar again translated for his painter, who replied animatedly.

"My Chief Painter says he and his workshop could easily produce four copies of this, any one of which would pass for the original."

"May it please Your Majesty, I say it is impossible. European painting is a centuries' old tradition, requiring years of apprenticeship and study."

The men around Hawksworth had begun to shift uncomfortably. The Moghul was never contradicted. Yet he seemed to relish the dispute.

"Then we'll set a wager. What will you wager me, Ambassador, that I can make this one painting of your king into five?"

"I know not what to lay with so great a prince, nor does it befit me to name a sum to Your Majesty." Hawksworth shifted uneasily, unsure of the protocol of betting with kings.

"Then if you'll not wager with me, wager with my painter."

"Begging Your Majesty's pardon, your painter is no more suited to wager with an ambassador than I am to wager with Your Majesty."

"Then wager with my prime minister." He turned to Nadir Sharif. "What will you lay?"

"Five thousand gold mohurs, Majesty."

Hawksworth swallowed hard, realizing the amount was almost ten thousand pounds English sterling, more money than he had ever seen.

"Money is not an honorable bet among those who speak for great princes, Your Majesty." Hawksworth glanced about wildly, then an idea came. "But perhaps I could wager your prime minister a horse, a fine Arabian stallion."

"Done." Arangbar beamed. "I'll have the paintings tonight."

The painter stared at Arangbar in dismay.

"It's not possible, Majesty. There's not time."

"You'll find a way. Or you'll owe Nadir Sharif a horse."

Arangbar passed the painting back to the painter and whirled with a flourish to leave. Around Hawksworth the nobles all bowed to the ground.

Hawksworth turned quickly to scan the back of the crowd, but Vasant Rao had disappeared. Then guards surrounded him and before he knew what was happening he was swept past Sarmento, whose eyes still glowed with hatred, toward a marble doorway at the corner of the Diwan-i-Am.