The Moghul Part 20

"Yes, so you have said. Unfortunately, what you ask may not be all that easy to grant. Your unhappy engagement with the Portuguese Viceroy's fleet has made my situation more than a trifle awkward." He leaned back and spoke rapidly in Persian to the eunuchs standing behind him. Then he turned back to Hawksworth. "But as one of our Agra poets, a Sufi rascal named Samad, once penned, The thread of life is all too short; the soul tastes wine and pa.s.ses on.' Before we explore these tiresome concerns further, let us taste some wine."

The eunuchs were already dictating orders to the servants. A silver chalice of fresh fruit appeared beside Hawksworth, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with mangoes, oranges larger than he had ever before seen, slices of melon, and other unknown fruits of varied colors. A similar bowl was placed beside Mukarrab Khan, who seemed to ignore it. Then as Hawksworth watched, the servants began spreading a white linen cloth over the red leather coverlet that had been placed on the carpet in front of them.

"A host is expected, Amba.s.sador, to apologize for the meal he offers. I will take the occasion to do that now." Mukarrab Khan flashed a sprightly smile. "But perhaps after your months at sea, you will be lenient. For my own part, I have fasted today, and there's an Arab proverb that hunger is the best spice. Still, I prefer leisurely gratification. I concur with our Hindu sensualists that pleasure prolonged is pleasure enhanced. All pleasure. Perhaps this evening you will see their wisdom."

Before Hawksworth could respond, two heavy doors at the back of the room slowly opened, glinting the lamplight off their elaborate filigree of gold and bronze, and the first trays appeared, covered with silver lids and borne by young men from the kitchen. Uniformed servants preceded them into the room. One by one the trays were pa.s.sed to the eunuchs, who removed their lids and carefully inspected the contents of each dish. After a brief consultation, the eunuchs ordered several of the dishes returned to the kitchen.

Hawksworth suddenly realized he was ravenous, and he watched the departing dishes in dismay. Did they somehow fail the eunuchs' exacting standards? Sweet Jesus, who cares? It all looks delicious.

After final approval by the eunuchs, the silver serving bowls were pa.s.sed to servants waiting along the sides of the room, who in turn arrayed them across the linen cloth between Hawksworth and Mukarrab Khan. A chief server then knelt behind the dishes, while several stacks of porcelain plates were placed next to him. Hawksworth tried to count the silver serving bowls, but stopped after twenty.

One by one the server ceremoniously removed the silver lids from the bowls. Beneath them the contents of the dishes had been arrayed in the colors of a rainbow. On beds of rice that ranged from white to saffron to green, and even purple, was an overwhelming array of meats, fish, and birds of all sizes. There were carved baked fruits; tiny b.a.l.l.s of meat flaked with spice and coconut; fried vegetables surrounded by silver cups of a pastel green sauce; large flat fish encased in dark baking sh.e.l.ls flecked with red and green spices; and a virtual aviary of wild fowl, from small game birds to plump pea hens.

The server dished hearty helpings from each bowl onto separate porcelain plates, together with mounds of almond rice and jellied fruits. As he started to pa.s.s the first plate to Hawksworth, Mukarrab Khan roughly arrested his hand. "This ill-bred kitchen _wallah_ will serve in the stables after tonight." He seized the serving spoons and, with a flourish of traditional Moghul etiquette, personally laded extra portions from each of the dishes onto Hawksworth's plates. The server beamed a knowing smile.

Hawksworth stared at the food for a moment, dazzled, and then he gingerly sampled a meatball. The taste was delicious, yet hardy, and he caught the musky flavor of lamb, lightened and trans.m.u.ted by a bouquet of spice. He next pulled away the side of a fish and wolfed it, before realizing the red and green flecks on its surface were some incendiary garnish. He surveyed the room in agony, praying for a mug of ale, till an alert eunuch signaled a servant to pa.s.s a dish of yogurt. To his amazement, the tangy, ice cold liquid seemed to instantly dissolve the fire on his tongue.

He plunged back into the dishes. He had never eaten like this before, even in England. He suddenly recalled with a smile an episode six months into the voyage. After Zanzibar, when he had become so weary of stale salt pork and biscuit he thought he could not bear to see it again, he had locked the door of the Great Cabin and composed a full English banquet in his mind--roast capon, next a pigeon pie larded in bacon fat, then a dripping red side of roast mutton, followed by oysters on the sh.e.l.l spiced with grilled eel, and finally a thick goose pudding on honeyed ham. And to wash it down, a bottle of sack to begin and a sweet muscadel, mulled even sweeter with sugar, to end. But this!

No luscious pork fat, and not nearly cloying enough for a true Englishman. Yet it worked poetry. Symmes was right. This was heaven.

With both hands he ripped the leg off a huge bird that had been basted to a glistening red and, to the visible horror of the server, dipped it directly into one of the silver bowls of saffron sauce meant for pigeon eggs. Hawksworth looked up in time to catch the server's look.

Does he think I don't like the food?

To demonstrate appreciation, he hoisted a goblet of wine to toast the server, while he stretched for a piece of lamb with his other hand. But instead of acknowledging the compliment, the server went pale.

"It's customary, Amba.s.sador, to use only one's right hand when eating."

Mukarrab Khan forced a polite smile. "The left is normally reserved for . . . attending to other functions."

Hawksworth then noticed how Mukarrab Khan was dining. He, too, ate with his fingers, just as you would in England, but somehow he managed to lift his food gracefully with b.a.l.l.s of rice, the sauce never soiling his fingertips.

A breeze lightly touched Hawksworth's cheek, and he turned to see a servant standing behind him, banishing the occasional fly with a large whisk fashioned from stiff horsehair attached to a long stick. Another servant stood opposite, politely but unnecessarily cooling him with a large fan made of red leather stretched over a frame.

"As I said, Amba.s.sador, your requests present a number of difficulties." Mukarrab Khan looked up and took a goblet of fruit nectar from a waiting servant. "You ask certain things from me, things not entirely in my power to grant, while there are others who make entirely different requests."

"You mean the Portugals."

"Yes, the Portuguese Viceroy, who maintains you have acted illegally, in violation of his law and ours, and should be brought to account."

"And I accuse them of acting illegally. As I told you, there's been a Spanish amba.s.sador in London ever since the war ended, and when we return I a.s.sure you the East India Company will . . ."

"This is India, Captain Hawksworth, not London. Please understand I must consider Portuguese demands. But we are pragmatic. I urge you to tell me a bit more about your king's intentions. Your king's letter.

Surely you must know what it contains."

Mukarrab Khan paused to dip a fried mango into a shimmering orange sauce, asking himself what he should do. He had, of course, posted pigeons to Agra at sunrise, but he suspected already what the reply would be. He had received a full account of the battle, and the attack on the river, before the early, pre-sun Ramadan meal. And it was only shortly afterward that Father Manoel Pinheiro had appeared, frantic and bathed in sweat. Was it a sign of Portuguese contempt, he often wondered, that they would a.s.sign such an incompetent to India?

Throughout their entire Society of Jesus, could there possibly be any priest more ill-bred? The Jesuit had repeated facts already known throughout the palace, and Mukarrab Khan had listened politely, masking his amus.e.m.e.nt. How often did a smug Portuguese find himself explaining a naval disaster? Four Portuguese warships, galleons with two gundecks, humiliated by two small English frigates. How, Mukarrab Khan had wondered aloud, could this have happened?

"There were reasons, Excellency. We have learned the English captain fired langrel into our infantry, shredded metal, a most flagrant violation of the unwritten ethics of warfare."

"Are there really supposed to be ethics in warfare? Then I suppose you should have sent only two of your warships against him. Instead you sent four, and still he prevailed. Today he has no need for excuses.

And tell me again what happened when your infantry a.s.saulted the English traders on the river?" Mukarrab Khan had monitored the Jesuit's eyes in secret glee, watching him mentally writhe in humiliation. "Am I to understand you could not even capture a pinnace?"

"No one knows, Excellency. The men sent apparently disappeared without a trace. Perhaps the English had set a trap." Father Pinheiro had swabbed his greasy brow with the sleeve of his ca.s.sock. His dark eyes showed none of the haughty disdain he usually brought to their meetings. "I would ask you not to speak of it outside the palace. It was, after all, a special mission."

"You would prefer the court in Agra not know?"

"There is no reason to trouble the Moghul, Excellency." The Jesuit paused carefully. "Or Her Majesty, the queen. This really concerns the Viceroy alone." The Jesuit's Persian was grammatically flawless, if heavily accented, and he awkwardly tried to leaven it with the polite complexities he had been taught in Goa. "Still less is there any need for Prince Jadar to know."

"As you wish." Mukarrab Khan had nodded gravely, knowing the news had already reached half of India, and most certainly Prince Jadar. "How, then, may I a.s.sist?"

"The English pirate and his merchants must be delayed here at least four weeks. Until the fleet of galleons now unlading in Goa, those of the spring voyage just arrived from Lisbon, can be outfitted to meet him."

"But surely he and his merchants will sail when they choose. And sooner if we deny them trade. Do you suggest that I approve this trade?"

"You must act as you see fit, Excellency. You know the Viceroy has always been of service to Queen Janahara." Pinheiro had paused slyly.

"Just as you have been."

The cynicism of Pinheiro's flaunting his knowledge had galled Mukarrab Khan most of all. If this Jesuit knew, who else must know? That the governor of Surat was bound inescapably to the queen. That on any matter involving Portuguese trade he must always send a formal message to the Moghul and a secret one to the queen, and then wait while she dictated the ruling Arangbar would give. Did this Jesuit know also why Mukarrab Khan had been exiled from Agra? To the wilderness of provincial Surat? That it was on orders of the queen, to marry and take with him a woman becoming dangerous, the _zenana _favorite of the Moghul, before the woman's influence outweighed that even of Janahara.

And now this female viper was in his palace forever, could not be removed or divorced, because she was still a favorite of the Moghul's.

"So you tell me I must make them rich before you can destroy them. That seems to be Christian wisdom at its most incisive." Mukarrab Khan had summoned a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying that the interview was ended. "It is always a pleasure to see you, Father. You will have my reply when Allah wills."

The Jesuit had departed as awkwardly as he had come, and it was then that Mukarrab Khan decided to meet the Englishman for himself. While there was still time. How long, he wondered, before the Shahbandar realized the obvious? And the prince?"

In the banquet room the air was now dense with the aroma of spice.

Hawksworth realized he had so gorged he could scarcely breathe. And he was having increasing difficulty deflecting Mukarrab Khan's probing questions. The governor was skillfully angling for information he properly did not need, and he did not seem a man given to aimless curiosity.

"What do you mean when you ask about the 'intentions' of England?"

"If the Moghul should approve a trade agreement with your East India Company, what volume of goods would you bring through our port here in Surat?" Mukarrab Khan smiled disarmingly. "Is the Company's fleet extensive?"

"That's a matter better addressed to the merchants of the Company."

Hawksworth monitored Mukarrab Khan's expression, searching for a clue to his thoughts. "Right now the Company merely wishes to trade the goods in our two merchantmen. English wool for Indian cotton."

"Yes, I am aware that was the first of your two requests." Mukarrab Khan motioned away the silver trays. "Incidentally, I hope you are fond of lamb."

The bronzed doors opened again and a single large tray was borne in by the dark-skinned, unsmiling servants. It supported a huge cooking vessel, still steaming from the oven. The lid was decorated with lifelike silver castings of various birds and animals. After two eunuchs examined it, the servants delivered it to the center of the linen serving cloth.

"Tonight to signify the end of Ramadan I instructed my cooks to prepare my special biryani. I hope you will not be disappointed. My kitchen here is scandalous by Agra standards, but I've succeeded in teaching them a few things."

The lid was lifted from the pot and a bouquet of saffron burst over the room. Inside, covering a flawless white crust, was a second menagerie of birds and animals, wrought from silver the thinness of paper. The server spooned impossible portions from the pot onto silver plates, one for Hawksworth and one for Mukarrab Khan. The silver-foil menagerie was distributed around the sides of each plate.

"Actually I once bribed a cook in the Moghul's own kitchen to give me this recipe. You will taste nothing like it here in Surat."

Hawksworth watched as he a.s.sembled a ball of the rice-and-meat melange with his fingers and reverently popped it into his mouth.

"Please try it, Amba.s.sador. I think you'll find it remarkable. It requires the preparation of two sauces, and seems to occupy half my incompetent kitchen staff." The governor smiled appreciatively.

Hawksworth watched dumbfounded as he next chewed up and swallowed one of the silver-foil animals.