The Moghul Part 33

Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, his hand still trembling.

"Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip.

"I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufi rascal."

"Is that what he said? Good. That only confirms once again what I think of His Excellency." She laughed with contempt. "Samad is a great poet.

He's perhaps the last great Persian writer, in the tradition of Omar Khayyam. He has favored me by allowing me to be one of his disciples."

"So you come here to write poems?"

"When I feel something I want to say."

"But I've also found lists of names here, and numbers."

"I told you I can't tell you everything." Shirin's look darkened momentarily as she drank again lightly from the cup, then settled it on the table. He found himself watching her face, drawn to her by something he could not fully understand. "But I can tell you this.

There's someone in India who will one day rid us of the infidel Portuguese. Do you know of Prince Jadar?"

"He's the son of the Moghul. I'm guessing he'll probably succeed one day."

"He should. If he's not betrayed. Things are very unsettled in Agra. He has many enemies there." She paused. "He has enemies here."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Then you should. Because what happens in Agra will affect everyone.

Even you."

"But what does Agra politics have to do with me? The knife was Portuguese."

"To understand what's happening, you should first know about Akman, the one we remember now as the Great Moghul. He was the father of Arangbar, the Moghul now. I was only a small girl when Akman died, but I still remember my sadness, my feeling the universe would collapse. We worshiped him almost. It's not talked about now, but the truth is Akman didn't really want Arangbar to succeed him, n.o.body did. But he had no choice. In fact, when Akman died, Arangbar's eldest son started a rebellion to deny him the throne, but that son's troops betrayed him, and after they surrendered Arangbar blinded him in punishment. Khusrav, his own son. Although Prince Jadar was still only a young boy then, we all thought after that he would be Moghul himself one day. But that was before the Persians came to power in Agra."

"But aren't you Persian yourself?"

"I was born in India, but yes, I have the great fortune to be of Persian blood. There are many Persians in India. You know, Persians still intimidate the Moghuls. Ours is a magnificent culture, an ancient culture, and Persians never let the Moghuls forget it." Shirin had dabbed at her brow and rose to peer out the door of the observatory building, as though by instinct. "Did you know that the first Moghul came to India less than a hundred years ago, actually after the Portuguese? He was named Babur, a distant descendant of the Mongol warrior Genghis Khan, and he was from Central Asia. Babur was the grandfather of Akman. They say he had wanted to invade Persia but that the ruling dynasty, the Safavis, was too strong. So he invaded India instead, and the Moghuls have been trying to make it into Persia ever since. That's why Persians can always find work in India. They teach their language at court, and give lessons in fashion, and in painting and garden design. Samad came here from Persia, and now he's the national poet."

"What do these Persians have to do with whatever's happening in Agra?

Are you, or your family, somehow involved too?"

"My father was Shayhk Mirak." She hesitated a moment, as though expecting a response. Then she continued evenly, "Of course, you'd not know of him. He was a court painter. He came to India when Akman was Moghul and took a position under the Persian Mir Sayyid Ali, who directed the painting studio Akman founded. You know, I've always found it amusing that Akman had to use Persian artists to create the Moghul school of Indian painting. Anyway, my father was very skilled at Moghul portraits, which everybody now says were invented by Akman. And when Akman died, Arangbar named my father to head the school. It lasted until she was brought to Agra."

"Who?"

"The queen, the one called Janahara."

"But why was your father sent away?"

"Because I was sent away."

Hawksworth thought he sensed a kind of nervous intensity quivering behind Shirin's voice. It's your story, he told himself, that I'd really like to hear. But he said nothing, and the silence swelled.

Finally she spoke again.

"To understand the trouble now, you must understand about the queen.

Her story is almost amazing, and already legends are growing around her. It's said she was born the day her father, Zainul Beg, left Persia as an adventurer bound for India. He ordered her abandoned in the sun to die, but after the caravan traveled on his wife lamented for the baby so much he decided to return for her. Although the sun was intense, they found her still alive. It's said a cobra was shading her with his hood." Shirin turned to Hawksworth, her dark eyes seeming to snap. "Can you believe such a story?"

"No. It sounds like a fable."

"Neither can I. But half the people in India do. Her father finally reached Lah.o.r.e, the city in India where Akman was staying, and managed to enter his service. Like any Persian he did very well, and before long Akman gave him a _mansab _rank of three hundred _zat_. His wife and daughter were allowed to come and go among the palace women. Then, when she was seventeen, this little Persian girl of the cobra began her plan. She repeatedly threw herself across the path of the Moghul's son Arangbar, whom she rightly guessed would be next in line for the throne. He was no match for her, and now people say she won his heart before he knew it himself. My own belief is she cast a spell on him."

"And he married her?"

"Of course not. Akman was no fool. He knew she was a schemer, and when he saw what she was doing he immediately had her married to a Persian general named Sher Afgan, whom he then appointed governor of Bengal, a province in the distant east of India. Akman died a few years after that, still thinking he had saved Arangbar from her, but he hadn't counted on the spell."

"So how did she get back to Agra, and become queen?"

"That part I know very well." Shirin laughed bitterly. "I was there.

You see, Arangbar never forgot his Persian cobra girl, even after he became Moghul himself. And he found a way to get her back. One day he announced he was receiving reports of unrest in Bengal, where Sher Afgan was still governor, and he summoned the governor to Agra to explain. When no answer came, he sent troops. n.o.body knows what happened, but the story was given out that Sher Afgan drew a sword on Arangbar's men. Perhaps he did. They say he was impulsive. But the Imperial troops cut him down. Then Arangbar ordered Sher Afgan's Persian wife and her little daughter, Layla, back to Agra and put them under the protection of his mother, the dowager queen. Then, just as we'd all predicted, he married her. At first he was going to put her in the _zenana_, the harem, but she refused. She demanded to be made his queen, an equal. And that's what he did. Except now she's actually more. She's the real ruler of India."

"And you were in the harem, the _zenana_, then?" Hawksworth decided to gamble on the story he had heard.

Shirin stared at him, trying to hide what seemed to be surprise. "You know." For a moment he thought she might reach out and touch his hand, but then she drew back into herself. "Yes, I was still in the _zenana_ then, but not for long. The first thing Janahara did was find out which women Arangbar favored, and she then had us all married off to governors of provinces far from Agra. You know a Muslim man is allowed four wives, so there's always room for one more. Mukarrab Khan got me."

"She seems very clever."

"You haven't heard even half her story yet. Next she arranged to have her brother, Nadir Sharif, appointed prime minister, and her father, Zainul Beg, made chief adviser to Arangbar. So now she and her family control the Moghul and everyone around him." Shirin paused. "Not quite everyone. Yet. Not Prince Jadar."

"But he'll be the next Moghul. When that happens, what becomes of her?"

"He _should _be the next Moghul. And if he is, her power will be gone.

That's why she wants to destroy him now."

"But how can she, if he's the rightful heir?" Hawksworth found himself suddenly dismayed by the specter of Agra in turmoil.

"No one knows. But she'll think of a way. And then she'll find someone she can control to be the next Moghul."''

'But why do you care so much who succeeds Arangbar?"

"One reason I care is because of Samad." Her eyes suddenly saddened.

"Now I really don't understand. He's a poet. Why should

it matter to him?"

"Because the queen would like to see him dead. He has too much influence. You must understand that the queen and her family are Shi'ites, a Persian sect of Islam. They believe all men should bow to some dogmatic mullah, whom they call an _imam_. But this was never in the teachings given to the Prophet."

A curse on all religions, Hawksworth had thought. Am I caught in the middle of some Muslim holy war?

"But why do these Persians, or their _imams_, want to be rid of Samad?"

"Because he's a Sufi, a mystic, who teaches that we all should find G.o.d within our own selves. Without the mullahs. That's why the Persian Shi'ites despise him and want him dead."