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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Ambassador Hawksworth, His Majesty has asked me to ensure you are wanting in nothing while you wait." Nadir Sharif was standing on the wide marble balcony when Hawksworth emerged from the stairs that led upward from the Diwan-i-Am to the interior courtyard of the palace. He salaamed with practiced dignity even as his darting eyes assessed Hawksworth in a quick sweep. "As prime minister for His Majesty it is my duty, indeed my pleasure, to attend your comfort and acquaint you with our protocol."

"I thank you on behalf of His Majesty, King James." Hawksworth awkwardly tried to salaam in return, careful not to bend as low as the prime minister.

"Perhaps I can begin by acquainting you with the palace." He gestured toward the open courtyard, where workmen thronged installing marble fountains, and the rest of the encircling second-story balcony. "The stalls below us are where the wives of merchants sometimes come to offer finery to the women of the zenana. Now they are being readied for His Majesty's birthday celebration. And there, across the way"-he pointed to a massive silk canopy covering a pavilion opposite the square, on the riverside of the palace- "is the Diwan-i-Khas, where His Majesty holds his evening gatherings. To the left are His Majesty's baths and on the right, projecting out over the river, is the Jasmine Tower of Queen Janahara. Now please follow me. His Majesty has honored you by inviting you to wait for him in the Diwan-i- Khas. The only other feringhis ever to see it are the Jesuits he sometimes invites here to debate with the mullahs."

Around them the marble porticoes had been carved in relief, a profusion of flowers and vines, creating a monochromatic garden in stone. The floors were patterned marble and the walls decorated with hanging tapestries. As they entered the Diwan-i-Khas, Hawksworth noticed its floor was covered with a vast Persian carpet, over which had been scattered bolsters and pillows for lounging. On the side nearest the interior square was a foot-high platform in white marble and on the opposite side, facing a gallery overlooking the arena below and the Jamuna River beyond, was a similar platform in black marble. Both were padded with rich carpets.

"His Majesty uses the white throne in evenings, and the black in the afternoons, when he sometimes comes here to watch elephant fights in the square below. The doorway there leads to Her Majesty's apartments."

"Where is His Majesty now?"

"He has retired to the zenana for one pahar, three hours, where he dines on roasted meats, some wine, and passes the time agreeably. Each afternoon Her Majesty selects a woman for him." Moghul smiled. "Naturally it's never the same one. Her Majesty is always first in his heart, but she never allows his wanton affections to wander. Afterward he comes here for his evening gathering." Nadir Sharif walked to the gallery and looked down on the river. Far below, on the opposite bank, a caravan of heavily loaded camels passed silently. "By the way, His Majesty has asked me to inquire if you have a lodging yet, Ambassador."

"I have references for brokers, and tomorrow I'll begin to look."

"And personal servants?"

"I'd hoped they'd be provided with the house."

"His Majesty may wish to arrange lodgings for you." Nadir Sharif turned back toward Hawksworth and paused for a moment before continuing. "In Agra ambassadors must acquire their lodgings and servants with care. There is, regrettably, a certain amount of intrigue in our city. Trustworthy and efficient servants are not always the easiest thing to find. Perhaps I should raise the matter of your lodging and servants with His Majesty."

"There's no reason to trouble His Majesty. I'll contact the brokers tomorrow." Hawksworth's tone was level but firm, suspecting that any servants picked for him would be spies. And if they turned out to be "trustworthy and efficient" rather than lazy and begrudging, there would be no doubt.

"The matter rests with His Majesty." Nadir Sharif watched as a eunuch entered bearing a tray with glasses of sharbat. A sarangi player followed him and settled in the corner, striking up a mournful-sounding tune on an instrument that looked like a bloated violin and sounded, to Hawksworth, like a distressed cat.

"Have you engaged an agent yet, Ambassador?" Nadir Sharif directed the tray toward Hawksworth.

"What do you mean?"

"If your king wishes to trade large quantities of commodity, he will certainly require an agent here in Agra. To ensure that documents and approvals are handled efficiently." Nadir Sharif sighed. "Officials here naturally prefer to work with someone who understands their… requirements. An agent will be essential, if your king expects to trade heavily." Nadir Sharif paused. "I presume that is his intention, assuming His Majesty approves the firman?"

Hawksworth examined Nadir Sharif for a moment, assuming he was offering to be the agent for King James. Or was he merely hoping to elicit trade information to pass on to the Portuguese.

"I'll engage an agent when the time seems proper. For now I have no firman." Then a light suddenly dawned somewhere in Hawksworth's brain. "But I suppose I'll need an 'agent' for that as well?"

"It could prove useful. His Majesty can be distressingly absentminded."

"And what would be this agent's fee?"

"It depends on the difficulty involved." Nadir Sharif's face remained impassive.

"I would say it also depends on whether he's successful."

"So it would. But he would need more information on English trading intentions than you have divulged so far."

"That will come in time, when I know more about the 'agent.'"

"Naturally." Nadir Sharif cleared his throat. "But enough of affairs. Permit me to toast your arrival. When your request for a safe-conduct pass arrived from Surat, we all wondered if a feringhi new to India could successfully travel our bandit-infested roads, even with the Moghul's pass." He took a delicate sip of the beverage. "I trust your journey was without mishap."

"For the most part."

"A diplomatic answer. But you seem to have survived all parts well enough. Did you take the Burhanpur road?"

"I did."

"Ah, then perhaps you passed Prince Jadar. I understand he was there recently." Nadir Sharif smiled disarmingly. "I always welcome news of him. You may know he's married to my first daughter, Mumtaz. I hear she just presented him with his first son."

"He was in Burhanpur when I arrived. But I was only there for three days."

"Not a very interesting city, I'm told. But they say the Deccan itself is quite beautiful in harvest. I envy you your trip. I, alas, rarely can escape Agra, except when His Majesty goes to Kashmir in the heat of summer." Nadir Sharif signaled the eunuch to refill Hawksworth's cup. The sarangi player had been joined by a drummer, who took up a slow, even rhythm. "Did I understand you to say you met the prince while you were there?"

Hawksworth hesitated and studied Nadir Sharif, not remembering he had mentioned meeting Jadar. "Actually I did see him briefly once. He was in the fortress, where I stayed."

"Ah yes, the fortress. That was wise of you, considering the situation now. I'm pleased he invited you to join him."

"As it happened, I traveled from Surat with men from his guard. Their destination was the fortress."

"His guards? Then you were most fortunate indeed." Nadir Sharif seemed to listen absently to the melody for a moment. "I'm always a bit stupid about military campaigns. What would men from his guards be doing in Surat?"

Hawksworth heard an inner alarm suddenly sound. "I think they were there to accompany a convoy."

"A convoy? From Surat? Odd. But then I rarely understand these things. What was it bringing?" Nadir Sharif chuckled congenially. "Barrels of Persian wine for the prince, I would venture to guess?"

"I understand it was lead for shot."

Nadir Sharif gave Hawksworth a quick, troubled glance. "I see. Yes, lead would require a guard. But Prince Jadar's Rajputs virtually scorn to use muskets, so I assume it was rather a small number of carts."

Hawksworth straightened his doublet, shifting the location of Vasant Rao's katar. "I don't recall the precise number."

"Naturally. I'm confused by numbers myself. Probably something like twenty, I suppose. Certainly, I would presume, no more than fifty?"

"I didn't count the exact number."

"Too many to count? I see." Nadir Sharif seemed to be only half attentive to the conversation, as he swung his head from side to side in appreciation of the accelerating tempo of the drummer. "Doubtless it was some of the very lead I'm told you brought for trade."

"It wasn't English."

"Ah, then I suppose it was Portuguese. I assume you must have noticed."

"Not actually." Hawksworth paused. "It wasn't really my concern."

"Yes, quite so." Nadir Sharif walked again to the gallery and stood silent, still swinging his head absently to the time of the music. The pieces of the puzzle had already dropped into place.

So that's how Jadar did it. And only one man in Surat could have provided the prince the silver he needed, that contemptible son of a moneylender Mirza Nuruddin. He's uncontrollable. But even if the prince survives the Deccan, what can he do? The Imperial army…

Allah, it's obvious! There's only one way he can ever march north with enough men to meet Janahara's army. By the Merciful Prophet, he's mad!

Nadir Sharif coughed lightly and turned back toward the room. "Ambassador Hawksworth, would you care for some wine? You need not be squeamish, His Majesty has always admired men who drink. I would join you, but regrettably I cannot. While His Majesty retires, the rest of us must labor on."

"A glass would be welcome."

"A glass, Ambassador? Did you say 'a glass'?" Nadir Sharif laughed. "You'll need more than a glass if you drink with His Majesty. I'll send the servants." He bowed again at the doorway of the vestibule. "I'll rejoin you when I can. In the meantime, summon the eunuchs if you require anything."

He turned and was gone. In what seemed only moments, two turbaned servants appeared, smiling as they placed a large chalice of wine on the carpet next to Hawksworth's bolster.

"It's all too incredible." Queen Janahara slumped onto a velvet divan and distractedly took a rolled betel leaf from the silver tray offered by a hovering eunuch. Behind her a female zenana slave fanned a plume of peacock feathers against the afternoon heat. As she spoke she brushed back her gold-threaded scarf, revealing gleaming dark hair-the few gray strands had been perfectly dyed-pulled back tightly against her head and secured with a golden band. Her only jewels were in a necklace, diamonds with a massive blue sapphire that complemented her dark eyes. She was nearing fifty, but still possessed of a beauty that had, with the years, evolved to magnificent dignity. Her face was statuesque and her Persian was both elegant and mellifluous. "He's still marching south. I think he actually enjoys living in the field, surrounded by mud and Rajputs. How much longer can he continue?"

"Be assured this time the prince will bring his own undoing." Nadir Sharif accepted a betel leaf from the tray, a gesture, and absently rolled it between his thumb and finger. He wondered nervously why she had summoned him to the Jasmine Tower the minute he left the English feringhi. He normally enjoyed meeting her there, amid the marble screens, where they could recline on the carpeted terrace and admire the broad Jamuna. As her brother and prime minister, it was not unseemly for him to visit her in her quarters. "The campaign in the Deccan will change everything, Your Majesty. It cannot end as did the last one, with Malik Ambar surrendering out of fright. The Abyssinian surely suspects by now that Jadar is isolated."

Queen Janahara was no longer listening. Her thoughts were seething over the two surprises of the day. The first was Nadir Sharif's absence from her historic appearance at the darshan balcony. She had already been informed of his absence by four separate eunuchs. All assumed it was deliberate.

Nadir Sharif. My own brother. Can he be wavering? Or merely bargaining?

Why? Has something happened with Jadar? The march south should have been the end of him. The mansabdars and their troops south of the Narbada were in shambles. But somehow Jadar has managed to recall enough cavalry to continue his campaign. What is he planning?

That question called to mind the second problem of the day.

The Englishman.

She knew, as Arangbar did not, that the Englishman had already met with Jadar. Why had Jadar contrived such a meeting? The prince must know that both she and Nadir Sharif had full support of the Viceroy of Goa. Did he also know that the Viceroy had even offered secretly to help arm the Deccanis against him, an arrangement she was now negotiating?

What of the English feringhi, his letter, his meeting with Jadar? She had studied him carefully through her screen when he appeared at the afternoon durbar and she had ordered a Persian translation of his letter prepared immediately. And what she read was disturbing. The English king had, it was true, asked merely for a trading firman. But who knew what sea power waited behind the English appearance at Surat?

She knew Jadar despised Christians, but he would not scruple to use them one against the other. Where would it lead, if Jadar could enlist English sea power in the struggle that loomed ahead, and somehow neutralize the influence of the Portuguese? Maddeningly, the Moghul seemed amused by the Englishman, by his rude manner.

"Why did His Majesty invite the feringhi to the Diwan-i- Khas tonight?"

"My esteemed sister, you were at today's durbar. You know His Majesty's whims far better than I. Perhaps he was fascinated by finding a feringhi who speaks his barbarous Turki. For His Majesty the new feringhi cannot be anything more than merely a new toy, like a new dog or horse. He will amuse himself with the feringhi, dangle promises before him, and wait to see if more gifts are forthcoming. You know he is the same with all ambassadors."

"This one I think is different. Did you see him refuse to teslim? I think His Majesty is already awed by him. I fear for India if the English ever gain influence here. Do you really believe the English king wants nothing more than trade?" Janahara found herself searching for the key to Nadir Sharifs thoughts. "What do you suppose would happen if these English defy the Portuguese and one day decide to blockade Surat? To allow trade only to those who have supported them at court." She paused as she studied him. "Could there be some here already who are fearful enough to pretend friendship to the Englishman?"

"Who could know these things?" Nadir Sharif walked to the white marble railing and gazed along the side of the fort, where the Jamuna lapped gently against the thick red walls. He remembered his pigeons, and then he remembered the morning darshan and Janahara's unprecedented appearance.

The Englishman is hardly a problem, my dear sister. He is already tamed. You are the problem now. You and your newfound power. But if you fear this harmless feringhi more than you fear me, then I have at last found a way to manage you as well. At long last.

"Tonight I will drink with the English feringhi, and then we may learn something useful. A man lounging with a wine cup in his hands says things he would never utter standing at durbar. I think His Majesty may also be wondering about the intentions of his king."

Janahara chewed silently on the betel leaf and eyed him, knowing he had met that morning with the Rajput who brought the English feringhi to Agra and wondering why. Whatever the reason, she told herself, Nadir Sharif would never be so foolish as to side with Jadar. Not so long as the prince was isolated and weak. Nadir Sharif did not gamble.

"The feringhi must be watched closely. Find a way. We need to know what he is doing, what he is thinking. Do you understand?"

"To hear is to obey." Nadir Sharif bowed lightly.

"And you will be at darshan tomorrow morning. Even if you were not there today."

"Naturally had I but known, Majesty…"

"Father made you prime minister. You can be just as easily removed."

"Your Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed, and with an unseen flick sent the rolled betel leaf spinning past the railing, toward the dark waters of the Jamuna below.

Hawksworth sipped from the new cup of wine, his third, and watched the musicians begin to retune. Around him the members of Arangbar's inner circle were assembling in the Diwan-i-Khas. This must be evening dress in Agra, he marveled: silk turbans studded with rubies and sapphires, diamond earrings, swords trimmed in gold and silver, pearl necklaces, cloaks of rich brocade, velvet slippers. The faces around him all betrayed the indolent eyes and pasty cheeks of men long indulged in rich food, hard spirits, sensuality.

It was, he now realized, the fairyland that Symmes had described that freezing day so long ago in the offices of the Levant Company. What man not a Papist monk could resist the worldly seductions of the Moghul's court?

Then he remembered the brave Pathan who had been torn apart by a lion that very afternoon, while all Arangbar's nobles watched unprotesting.

On the signal of a eunuch standing by the doorway the drummer suddenly pounded out a loud, rhythmic fanfare, and then the sitarist took up a martial motif. The brocade drapery hanging inside a marble archway at the back of the room was drawn aside by a guard and a moment later Arangbar swept into the room. The courtiers all bowed in the teslim, rising with their hands on their forehead.

Arangbar had changed to evening dress. He wore a dark velvet turban encrusted with jewels, tight-fitting patterned trousers beneath a transparent muslin skirt, and a gold brocade cinch at his waist. He clapped his hands in delight when he saw Hawksworth holding a wine cup.

"The ambassador has already tasted our Persian wine. How do you find it, Ambassador… Khaw…?" He stumbled over the name. "Wait. The first thing we must do is rename you. Henceforth we will call you 'Inglish.' Now, have we pronounced that properly?"

"Perfectly, Your Majesty. And, so please Your Majesty, the wine is excellent, though perhaps not as sweet as the wines of Europe."

"Every feringhi says the same, Inglish. But we will civilize you. And also teach you something about painting." He seized a glass of wine from a waiting eunuch and then shouted to Nadir Sharif, who had entered moments before from the back. "Where are my five paintings?"

"I'm told they will be ready before Your Majesty retires. The painters are still hard at work, so please Your Majesty."

"It does not please me, but then I have no wager." He roared with amusement. "Your stables will be reduced by a prize stallion come morning if the paintings are not ready soon. Look to it."

As Nadir Sharif bowed in acknowledgment, Arangbar whirled to Hawksworth.

"Tell me something about your king, Inglish? How many wives does he have? We have hundreds."

"He has but one, Your Majesty, and I believe she is mostly for show. King James prefers the company of young men."

"Very like most Christians I've met. And you, Inglish. Have you any wives?" Arangbar had already finished his first glass of wine and taken a second.

"I have none, Your Majesty."

"But you, I suspect, are not a Jesuit, or a eunuch."

"No, Your Majesty."

"Then we shall find you a wife, Inglish." He took a ball of opium and washed it down with wine. "No, we will find you two. Yes, you shall be well wived."

"May it please Your Majesty, I have no means to care for a wife. I am here for only a season." Hawksworth shifted uncomfortably.

"You will only leave Agra, Inglish, when it is our pleasure. But if you will not have a wife, you must at least have a house."

"I am arranging it now, Your Majesty."

Arangbar looked at Hawksworth sharply, then continued as though he had not heard.

"Now tell us more about your king. We would know what he's like."

Hawksworth bowed as he tried to collect his thoughts. The wine was already toying with his brain. Although most of what he knew about King James was hearsay, he knew he did not care for England's new king overly much. No English subject did. And idle seamen had reason to dislike him the most of all. He was not the sovereign Elizabeth had been.

"He's of middle stature, Your Majesty, not overly fat though he seems so since he always wears quilted, stiletto-proof doublets."

Arangbar seemed surprised. "Is he not safe? Has he no guards?"

"He's a prudent man, Your Majesty, as befits a sovereign." And, Hawksworth thought, also a coward, if you believe the talk in London. What all men know for fact, though, is that he's a weakling, whose legs are so spindly he has to be helped to walk, leaning on other men's shoulders while he fiddles spastically with his codpiece.

"Does your king wear many jewels, Ambassador Inglish?"

"Of course, Your Majesty." Hawksworth drank calmly from his wine cup, hoping the lie would pass unnoticed.

What would the Moghul think if he knew the truth, Hawksworth asked himself? That King James of England only changes his clothes when they are rags, and his fashion never. He was once, they say, given a Spanish-style hat, and he cast it away, swearing he loved neither them nor their fashions. Another time he was given shoes with brocade roses on them, and he railed at the giver, asking if he was to be made a ruff-footed dove.

"Is your king generous of nature, Ambassador? We are loved by our people because we give of our bounty on every holy day. Baskets of silver rupees are flung down the streets of Agra."

"King James is giving also, Your Majesty." With the moneys of others. He'd part willingly with a hundred pounds not in his own keeping before he'd release ten shillings from his private purse. And it's said he'd rather spend a hundred thousand pounds on embassies abroad, buying peace with bribes, than ten thousand on an army that would enforce peace with honor. "He is a man among men, Your Majesty, admired and loved by all his subjects."

"As are we, Ambassador." Arangbar took another ball of opium and washed it down with a third glass of wine. "Tell me, does your king drink spirits?"

"It is said he drinks often, Your Majesty, though many declare it is more out of custom than delight. He drinks strong liquors-Frontiniack, Canary, High Canary wine, Tent wine, Scottish ale-but never, it's said, more than a few spoonfuls."

"Then he could never drink with the Moghul of India, Ambassador. We have twenty cups of wine a night. And twelve grains of opium." Arangbar paused as he accepted yet another glass. His voice had begun to slur slightly. "But perhaps your king can trade with me. When will the ships from your king's next voyage arrive? And how many of your king's frigates will we see yearly if we grant him the trading firman he requests?"

Hawksworth noticed out of the corner of his eye that Nadir Sharif had now moved directly beside him. The prime minister held a glass of wine from which he sipped delicately. Around him the other courtiers were already drinking heavily, to the obvious approval of Arangbar.

He'll not finish a single glass of wine, if my guess is right. Nadir Sharif'll find a way to stay stone sober while the rest of the room sinks into its cups. And they'll all be too drunk to notice.

"King James will one day send an armada of frigates, Your Majesty." Keep Arangbar's mind off the next voyage. He just may try to hold you here until it comes, or refuse to grant a firman until he sees the next batch of presents. "His Majesty, King James, is always eager to trade the seas where his ships are welcome."

"Even if other nations of Europe would quarrel with his rights to those seas?"

"England has no quarrels in Europe, Your Majesty. If you refer to the engagement off Surat, you should know that was caused by a misunderstanding of the treaties that now exist in Europe. England is at peace with all her neighbors."

A skeptical silence seemed to envelop the room. Arangbar took another cup of wine and drank it off. Then he turned to Hawksworth.

"The matter, Ambassador Inglish, does not seem to us to be that simple. But we will examine it more later. Nights are made for beauty, days for affairs of state." Arangbar's voice had begun to slur even more noticeably. "You may have heard there will be a wedding here soon. My youngest prince is betrothed to the daughter of my queen. The wedding will be held one month after my own birthday celebration, and it will be an event to remember. Tonight I begin the always-pleasant task of selecting the women who will dance. Do you know anything of Indian dance?"

"Very little, Your Majesty. I have only seen it once. In Surat. At a gathering one evening at the palace of the Shahbandar."

Arangbar roared and seized another glass of wine. "I can well imagine the kind of entertainment the Shahbandar of Surat provides for his guests. No, Ambassador, I mean the real dance of India. The dance of great artists? Perhaps you have classical dance in England?"

"No, Your Majesty. We have nothing similar. At least similar to the dance I saw."

"Then a pleasant surprise awaits you." Arangbar examined Hawksworth's cup and motioned for a servant to refill it. "Drink up, Inglish. The evening is only beginning."

Arangbar clapped drunkenly and the guests began to settle themselves around the bolsters that had been strewn about the carpet. An ornate silk pillow was provided for each man to rest against, and a number of large hookahs, each with several mouthpieces, were lighted and stationed about the room. The servants also distributed garlands of yellow flowers, and as Nadir Sharif took his place next to Hawksworth, he wrapped one of the garlands about his left wrist. With the other hand he set down his wineglass, still full, and signaled a servant to replenish Hawksworth's. Arangbar was reclining now on the throne, against his own bolster, and the oil lamps around the side of the room were lowered, leaving illumination only on the musicians and on a bare spot in the center of the carpet. The air was rich with the aroma of roses as servants passed shaking rosewater on the guests from long-necked silver decanters.

The musicians were completing their tuning, and Hawksworth noticed that now there were two drummers, a sitar player, and a new musician holding a sarangi. In the background another man sat methodically strumming a simple upright instrument, shaped like the sitar save it provided nothing more than a low-pitched droning, against which the other instruments had been tuned. Next a man entered, wearing a simple white shirt, and settled himself on the carpet in front of the musicians. As silence gripped the room, Arangbar signaled to the seated man with his wineglass and the man began to sing a low, soulful melody that seemed to consist of only a few syllables. "Ga, Ma, Pa." The voice soared upward. "Da, Ni, Sa." After a few moments Hawksworth guessed he must be singing the names of the notes in the Indian scale. They were virtually identical to the Western scale, except certain notes seemed to be a few microtones higher or lower, depending whether approached from ascent or descent.

The singer's voice soared slowly upward in pitch and volume, growing more intense as it quavered around certain of the high notes, while the sarangi player listened attentively and bowed the exact notes he sang, always seeming to guess which note he would find next. The song was melodic, and gradually what had at first seemed almost a dirge grew to be a poignant line of beauty.

Suddenly the singer's voice cut the air with a fast-tempo phrase, which was brief and immediately repeated, the second time to the accompaniment of the drum, as both players picked up the notes. On the third repetition of the phrase, the curtains on Arangbar's right were swept aside and a young woman seemed to fairly burst across the room, her every skipping step announced by a band of tiny bells bound around her ankles and across the tops of her bare feet.

As she spun into the light, she whirled a fast pirouette that sent her long braided pigtail-so long the end was attached to her waist-whistling in an arc behind her. Her flowered silk tunic flew outward from her spinning body, revealing all of her tight-fitting white trousers. She wore a crown of jewels, straight pendant earrings of emerald, and an inch- long string of diamonds dangled from the center of her nose.

She paused for an instant, whirled toward Arangbar, and performed a salaam with her right hand, fingers slightly bent, thumb across her palm as she raised her hand to her forehead. The movement was possessed of so much grace it seemed a perfect dance figure.

"May I take the liberty of interpreting for you, Ambassador?" Nadir Sharif ignored the hookah mouthpiece that another, slightly tipsy, guest was urging on him and slid closer to Hawksworth. "Kathak is an art, like painting or pigeon-flying, best appreciated when you know the rules." He pointed toward the dancer. "Her name is Sangeeta, and she has just performed the invocation. For the Hindus it is a salute to their elephant-headed god Ganesh. For Muslims, it is a salaam."

Next she turned slowly toward the guests and struck a pose, one foot crossed behind the other, arms bent as though holding a drawn bow. As the sarangi played a slow, tuneful melody, she seemed to control the rhythm of the drums by quietly stroking together again and again the thumb and forefinger of each hand. The explosive tension in her body seemed focused entirely in this single, virtually imperceptible motion, almost as a glass marshals the power of the sun to a tiny point. Then her eyes began to dart from side to side, and first one eyebrow and then the other lifted seductively. Gradually the rhythm was taken up by her head, as it began to glide from side to side in a subtle, elegant expression that seemed an extension of the music.

She had possessed the room almost as a spirit of pure dance, chaste, powerful, disciplined, and there was nothing of the overt suggestiveness of the nautch dancers of the Shahbandar's courtyard. She wore a low-cut, tight vest of brocade over a long-sleeved silk shirt, and of her body only her hands, feet, and face were visible. It was these, Hawksworth realized, not her body, that were the elements of Kathak dance.

"Now she'll begin the second section of the dance. It's the introduction and corresponds to the opening of a raga. It sets the atmosphere and makes you long for more. I know of no feringhi who has ever seen Kathak, but perhaps you can understand. Do you feel it?"

Hawksworth sipped his wine slowly and tried to clear his head. In truth he felt very little, save the intensity that seemed to be held in check.

"It appears to be rather subtle. Very little seems to be happening." Hawksworth drank again and found himself longing for a lively hornpipe.

"A great deal will happen, Ambassador, and very soon. In India you must learn patience."

Almost at that moment the drummers erupted with a dense rhythmic cycle and the sarangi took up a single repetitive phrase. Sangeeta looked directly at Hawksworth and called out a complex series of rhythmic syllables, in a melodic if slightly strident voice, all the while duplicating the exact pattern of sounds by slapping the henna-reddened soles of her feet against the carpet. Then she glided across the carpet in a series of syncopated foot movements, saluting each of the guests in turn and calling out strings of syllables, after which she would dance a sequence that replicated the rhythm exactly, her feet a precise percussion instrument.

"The syllables she recites are called bols, Ambassador, which are the names of the many different strokes on the tabla drums. Drummers sometimes call out a sequence before they play it. She does the same, except she uses her feet almost as a drummer uses his hands."

As Hawksworth watched, Sangeeta called strings of syllables that were increasingly longer and more complex. He could not understand the bols, or perceive the rhythms as she danced them, but the drunken men around him were smiling and swinging their heads from side to side in what he took to be appreciative approval. Suddenly Arangbar shouted something to her and pointed toward the first drummer. The drummer beamed, nodded, and as Sangeeta watched, called out a dense series of bols. Then she proceeded to dance the sequence with her feet. The room exploded with cries of appreciation when she finished the sequence, and Hawksworth assumed she had managed to capture the instructions the musician had called. Then Arangbar pointed to the other drummer and he also called out a string of bols, which again Sangeeta repeated. Finally the singer called a rhythm sequence, the most complex yet, and both dancer and drummer repeated them precisely together.

As the tempo became wilder, Sangeeta began a series of lightning spins, still pounding the carpet with her reddened soles, and in time she seemed to transform into a whirling top, her pigtail loose now and singing through the air like a deadly whip. She had become a blur, and for a brief moment she appeared to have two heads. Hawksworth watched in wonder and sipped from his wine cup.

"Now she'll begin the last part, Ambassador, the most demanding of all."

The rhythm became almost a frenzy now. Then as suddenly as they had begun the whirls ended. Sangeeta struck a statuesque pose, arms extended in rigid curves, and began a display of intensely rhythmic footwork. Her body seemed frozen in space as nothing moved save her feet. The bells on her ankles became a continuous chime, increasing in tempo with the drum and the sarangi until the rhythmic phrase itself was nothing more than a dense blur of notes, Suddenly the drummer and instrumentalist fell silent, conceding the room to Sangeeta's whirring bells. She seemed, at the last, to be treading on pure air, her feet almost invisible. When the intensity of her rhythm became almost unbearable, the drummers and sarangi player reentered, urging the excitement to a crescendo. A final phrase was introduced, repeated with greater intensity, and then a third and final time, ending with a powerful crash on the large drum that seemed to explode the tension in the room. Several of the musicians cried out involuntarily, almost orgasmically, in exultation. In the spellbound silence that followed, the nobles around Hawksworth burst into cheers.

Sangeeta seemed near collapse as she bowed to Arangbar. The Moghul smiled broadly, withdrew a velvet purse of coins from his cloak, and threw it at her feet. Moments later several others in the room followed suit. With a second bow she scooped the purses from the carpet and vanished through the curtains. The cheers followed her long after she was gone.

"What do you think, Ambassador? You know half the men here would give a thousand gold mohurs to have her tonight." Nadir Sharif beamed mischievously. "The other half two thousand."

"Come forward." Arangbar motioned to the singer sitting on the carpet. He was, Hawksworth now realized, an aging, portly man with short white hair and a painful limp. As he approached Arangbar's dais, he began removing the tiny cymbals attached to the fingers of one hand that he had used to keep time for the dancer.

"He's her guru, her teacher." Nadir Sharif pointed to the man as he bowed obsequiously before the Moghul. "If His Majesty decides to select Sangeeta to dance at the wedding, his fortune will be made. Frankly I thought she was good, though there is still a trifle too much flair in her style, too many tricks. But then she's young, and perhaps it's too soon to expect genuine maturity. Still, I noticed His Majesty was taken with her. She could well find herself in the zenana soon."

Arangbar flipped another purse of coins to the man, and then spoke to him curtly in Persian.

"His Majesty has expressed his admiration, and says he may call him again after he has seen the other dancers." Nadir Sharif winked. "Choosing the dancers is a weighty responsibility. Naturally His Majesty will want to carefully review all the women."

The lamps brightened again and servants bustled about the carpet filling glasses and exchanging the burned-out tobacco chillum, clay bowls at the top of each hookah. When they had finished, Arangbar took another glass of wine and signaled for the lamps to be lowered once more. A new group of musicians began filing into the room, carrying instruments Hawksworth had never before seen. First came the drummer, who carried not the two short tabla drums but rather a single long instrument, designed to be played at both ends simultaneously. A singer entered next, already wearing small gold cymbals on each hand. Finally a third man entered, carrying nothing but a piece of inch-thick bamboo, less than two feet in length and perforated with a line of holes.

Arangbar looked quizzically at Nadir Sharif.

As though reading the question, the prime minister rose and spoke in Turki. "This one's name is Kamala, Your Majesty. She is originally from the south, but now she is famous among the Hindus in Agra. Although I have never seen her dance, I assumed Your Majesty would want to humor the Hindus by auditioning her."

"We are a sovereign of all our subjects. I have never seen this Hindu dance. Nor these instruments of the south. What are they called?"

"The drum is called a mirdanga, Majesty. They use it in the south with a type of sitar they call the veena. The other instrument is a bamboo flute."

Arangbar shifted impatiently. "Tell them this should be brief."

Nadir Sharif spoke quickly to the musicians in a language few in the room seemed to understand. They nodded and immediately the flautist began a haunting lyric line that bathed the room in a soft, echoing melody. Hawksworth was startled that so simple an instrument could produce such rich, warm tones.

The curtains parted and a tall, elaborately jeweled woman swept across the carpet. She took command of the space around her, possessed it, almost as though it were part of her being. Her long silk sari had been gathered about each leg so that it seemed like trousers, and her every step was announced by dense bracelets of bells at her ankles. Most striking, however, was her carriage. Hawksworth had never before seen such dignity of motion.

As he stared at her, he realized she was wearing an immense, diamond-encrusted nose ring and long pendant earrings, also of diamonds. Not even the Moghul wore stones to equal hers. Her face was heavily painted, but still he suspected she might no longer be in the first bloom of youth. Her self-assurance was too secure. She knew exactly who she was.

She turned her back to Arangbar as she reverently gave an invocation, both hands together and raised above her head, to some absent god. The only sound was the slow, measured cadence of the drum. Suddenly it seemed as though her body had captured some perfect moment of balance, a feeling of timelessness within time.

Hawksworth glanced toward Arangbar, whose irritation was obvious.

How can she be so imprudent as to ignore him? Aren't Hindus afraid of him? What was her name? Kamala?

His eyes shot back to the woman.

Kamala.

Can she be the woman Kali spoke of that last night in Surat? The Lotus Woman? Nadir Sharif said she was famous.

"Just who are you?" Arangbar's voice cut through the carpeted room, toward the woman's back. He was speaking Turki, and he was outraged.

Kamala whirled on him. "One who dances for Shiva, in his aspect as Nataraj, the god of the dance. For him and for him alone."

"What do you call this dance for your infidel god?"

"Bharata Natyam. The dance of the temple. The sacred tradition as old as India itself. The god Shiva set the world in motion by the rhythms of his dance. My dance is a prayer to Shiva." Kamala's eyes snapped with hatred. "I dance for no one else."

"You were summoned here to dance for me." Arangbar pulled himself drunkenly erect. Around the room the nobles began to shift uneasily, their bleary eyes filling with alarm.

"Then I will not dance. You have the world in your hands. But you cannot possess the dance of Shiva. Our dance is prescribed in the Natya Shastra of the ancient sage Bharata. Over a thousand years ago he declared that dance is not merely for pleasure; dance is the blending of all art, religion, philosophy. It gives mankind wisdom, discipline, endurance. Through dance we are allowed to know the totality of all that is. My dance is not for your sport."

Arangbar's anger increased, but now it was leavened with puzzlement.

"If you will not dance your Shiva dance, then dance Kathak."

"The dance Muslims call Kathak is the perversion of yet another of our sacred traditions. Perhaps there are some Hindu dancers who will, for Muslim gold, debase the ancient Kathak dance of India, will make it a display of empty technique for the amusement of India's oppressors. Muslims and"-she turned and glared at Hawksworth-"now feringhi. But I will not do it. The Kathak you want to see is no longer true Kathak. It has been made empty, without meaning. I will never debase our true Kathak dance for you, as others have done, any more than I will dedicate a performance of Bharata Natyam to a mortal man."

The guards near the entrance of the Diwan-i-Khas had all tensed, their hands dropping uneasily to their swords.

"I have heard enough. A man who dared speak to me as you have would be sent to the elephants. You, I think, deserve more. Since you speak to your god through dance, you do not need a tongue."

Arangbar turned to summon the waiting guards when, at the rear of the Diwan-i-Khas, the figure of the Chief Painter emerged, his assistants trailing behind. They carried a long, thin board.

Nadir Sharif spotted them and immediately leaped to his feet, almost as though he had been expecting their entrance.

"Your Majesty." He quickly moved between Arangbar and Kamala, who stood motionless. "The paintings have arrived. I'm ready for my horse. Let the English ambassador see them now."

Arangbar looked up in confusion, his eyes half closed from the opium. Then he saw the painters and remembered.

"Bring them in." Suddenly his alertness seemed to return. "I want to see five Inglish kings."

The paintings were brought to the foot of Arangbar's dais, and he inspected them drunkenly, but with obvious satisfaction.

"Ambassador Inglish. Have a look." Arangbar called toward the hushed shadows of the seated guests. A path immediately cleared among the bolsters, as hookahs were pushed aside, wineglasses seized.

Hawksworth walked unsteadily forward, his mind still stunned by the imminent death sentence waiting for the woman. As he passed her, he sensed her powerful presence and inhaled her musky perfume. There was no hint of fear in her eyes as she stood waiting, statuesque and defiant.

By the time he reached the throne, eunuchs were waiting with candles, one on each side of the board, bathing it in flickering light. On it was a line of five English miniatures of King James, each approximately an inch square.

Good Jesus, they're identical. Am I so drunk I can't tell a painting of King James?

He looked up shakily at Arangbar, whose smile was a gloat.

"Well, Ambassador Inglish. What say you? Are the painters of my school equal to any your king has?"

"One moment, Majesty. Until my eyes adjust." Hawksworth grasped one edge of the board to steady himself. Behind him there were murmurs of delight and he caught the word "feringhi."

As he walked along the board, studying each painting in turn, he suddenly noticed that the reflection of the candlelight was different for one.

The paint is still wet on the new portraits. That's the difference. Or is it? Are my eyes playing tricks? Damn me for letting Nadir Sharif fill my wineglass every chance he had.

"Come, Ambassador Inglish. We do not have all night." Arangbar's voice was brimming with triumph.

Hawksworth studied the paintings more closely. Yes, there's a slight difference. The colors on the one painting are slightly different. Duller.

They didn't use varnish. And there are fewer shadows. Theirs are more two-dimensional.

"I'm astounded, Your Majesty. But I believe this is the one by Isaac Oliver." Hawksworth pointed to the painting second from the right end.

"Let me see them again." Arangbar's voice was a husky slur. "I will tell if you have guessed correctly."

The board was handed up. Arangbar glanced at the paintings for only an instant. "You have guessed right, Ambassador Inglish. And I realize how you did it. The light from the candles."

"The portraits are identical, Your Majesty. I confess it."

"So we have won our point. And you won the wager, Inglish. Still, you won only because of my haste. Tomorrow you would not have known. Do you admit it?"

"I do, Your Majesty." Hawksworth bowed slightly.

"So, you did not really win the wager after all. We lost it. But I am a man of honor. We will release Nadir Sharif from his pledge. I am the one who must pay. What would you have? Perhaps a diamond?"

"The wager was only for a horse, Your Majesty." Hawksworth was stunned.

"No. That was the wager of Nadir Sharif. You have won a wager from a king. Yours must be the payment of a king. If not a jewel, then what would you have?"

Before Hawksworth could reply, Nadir Sharif stepped forward and bent toward Arangbar.

"If I may be allowed to suggest, Your Majesty, the feringhi needs a woman. Give him this dancer. Let him amuse himself with her until you can find a suitable wife for him."

Arangbar looked toward Hawksworth with glazed eyes. It was obvious he had already forgotten about Kamala.

"The Kathak dancer who was here? She was excellent. Yes, that would be perfect."

"Your Majesty of course means the woman standing here now." Nadir Sharif directed Arangbar's groggy gaze toward Kamala, who stood mutely, eyes flashing.

"There she is. Of course. What do you say to her, Inglish?"

Hawksworth was astounded by Nadir Sharifs quickness of wit. He's saved the woman. He's a genius. Of course I'll take her. Good Jesus, there's been enough bloodshed today.

"The woman would be the gift of a great prince, Your Majesty."

"So there's manhood about you after all, Inglish. I had begun to think you were like your king." Arangbar laughed in delight. "So it's a woman you would have, Ambassador? Merciful Allah, I have too many now. Perhaps you would like two. I recall there's an Armenian Christian somewhere in the zenana. Perhaps several. They're said to be as lusty as the Portuguese harlots in Goa." He choked for a moment on laughter. "Let me summon the eunuchs."

"This one will do for now, Your Majesty." Think how to phrase this. "Merely to serve me."

"Yes, she will 'serve' you, Ambassador. Or we will have her head. If she would amuse you, she's yours."

Kamala's look met Hawksworth's. It was strangely without emotion.

Then Arangbar suddenly remembered Kamala's defiance and turned to study her again with half-closed eyes.

"But not this one. It must be the other one you want. This one will be hanged tonight, in a room far beneath the zenana. After she has answered for her words. Tomorrow her carcass will pollute the Jamuna. A man in her place would already be dead."

"May it please Your Majesty, it would satisfy me even more to have this one." Hawksworth paused. "Perhaps it's what the English call honor. We both know I did not win our wager fairly. Only by taking something of no value, like this woman, could I maintain my honor, and my king's."

"You are persuasive, Inglish, and I am drunk. But not too drunk to suspect you've taken a fancy to this infidel. But if you prefer her to the other, then so be it. We offered you whatever you wished. She's yours. But never let her be seen on the streets of Agra again. We will have her cut down."

"As please Your Majesty."

"It's done." Arangbar turned to Nadir Sharif. "Is it true you've found a house for the Inglish?"

"I have, Your Majesty."

"Then send her there." He turned to Hawksworth. "Allah protect you from these infidel Hindus, Inglish. They have none of your Inglish honor."

"I humbly thank Your Majesty." Jesus Christ, I've just been imprisoned in a house staffed by Nadir Sharifs hand-picked spies.

"Enough. We've been told to retire early tonight. Her Majesty thinks we drink to excess." He laughed a slurred chortle. "But we will see you tomorrow, Inglish. To talk more. We have much to discuss. We want to hear what gifts your king is preparing for us. We would very much like a large mastiff from Europe. We hear they hunt game like a chitah."

Arangbar drew himself up shakily and two eunuchs immediately were at his side, helping him from the white marble throne. None of the guests moved until he had passed through the curtains. Immediately the eunuchs began moving about the room, extinguishing the lamps. By the time the guests assembled to leave, the room was virtually dark. Kamala and the musicians had been escorted from the room by Arangbar's guards. Suddenly Hawksworth felt Nadir Sharifs hand on his arm.

"That was a noble thing you did, Ambassador. We all owe you a debt of thanks. I have rarely seen His Majesty so out of temper. The repercussions could have been distressing for many of us."

"It was your idea."

"Merely a quick fancy, an act of desperation. But without your cooperation it would have been impossible. I do thank you."

"There's nothing to thank me for." Hawksworth drew his arm away. "Where's this house you've found for me?"

Nadir Sharif sighed. "Finding a secure lodging these days is more difficult than you might first imagine, Ambassador. But you were in luck. I remembered there's a small lodge in my palace grounds that is unoccupied. I did not reckon on quarters for two, but of course the woman will be living with your servants. The house should serve until something more fitting can be found."

"My thanks." Damn you. "When do I move there?"

"Your effects have already been moved, on His Majesty's authority. You can come tonight. My men will show you there. Your dinner is probably waiting."

At that moment the last lamp was extinguished. Along with the other guests they groped their way out of the Diwan-i-Khas in total darkness.