The Moghul Part 53

This time I will use my own generals. Abdullah Khan will command the advance guard, with three thousand horse from our own troops. Abul Hasan will take the left flank, and Raja Vikramajit the right. I will personally command the center." Jadar fixed Ghulam Adl squarely. "You will be confined to the fort, where you'll send no ciphers to Ambar.

Your remaining troops will be divided and put under our command. You will order it in writing today and I will send the dispatches."

"For your sake I trust this is a jest, Highness. You dare not carry it out." Ghulam Adl slammed his gla.s.s onto the carpet, spilling his wine.

The Rajputs around Jadar stiffened but made no move. "I have the full support of the Moghul himself. Your current position in Agra is already talked about here in the south. Do you think we're so far away we hear nothing? Your return this time, if you are allowed to return, will be nothing like the grand celebrations three years ago. If I were you, I'd be marching back now. Leave the Deccan to those who know it."

"You're right about Agra on one point. It is far away. And this campaign is mine, not the Moghul's."

"You'll never raise the troops, young prince: Only I can induce the _mansabdars_ to muster."

"I'll muster the men. With full pay."

"You'll muster nothing, Highness. You'll be Ambar's prisoner inside a month. I can swear it. If you are still alive." Ghulam Adl bowed low and his hand shot for his sword. By the time it touched the handle the Rajputs were there. He was circled by drawn blades. Jadar watched impa.s.sively for a moment, and then signaled the guards to escort Ghulam Adl from the audience room.

"I'll see you dead." He shouted over his shoulder as the men dragged him toward the door. "Within the month."

Jadar watched Ghulam Adl's turban disappear through the torchlit opening and down the corridor. His sword remained on the carpet, where it had been removed by the Rajput guards. Jadar stared at it for a moment, admiring the silver trim along the handle, and it reminded him of the silver shipment. And the Englishman.

Vasant Rao blundered badly with the English captain. He should have found a way to disarm him in advance. Always disarm a _feringhi_. Their instincts are too erratic. The whole scenario fell apart after he killed the headman of the dynasty. My Rajput games almost became a war.

But what happened in the village? Did the _feringhi_ work sorcery? Why was the caravan released so suddenly? The hors.e.m.e.n I had ma.s.sed in the valley, in case of an emergency, panicked after the eclipse began. They became just so many terrified Hindus. Then suddenly the caravan a.s.sembled and left, with Rajputs from the village riding guard, escorting them all the way back to the river.

And even now Vasant Rao refuses to talk about what really happened. It seems his honor is too besmirched. He refuses even to eat with the other men.

Allah the Merciful. Rajputs and their cursed honor.

But I've learned what I need to know about the English _feringhi_. His nerve is astonishing. How could he dare refuse to attend my morning durbar audience in the reception room? Should I accept his claim that he's an amba.s.sador and therefore I should come to him. Should I simply have him brought before me?

No. I have a better idea. But tomorrow. After the child is born and I've sent runners to the _mansabdars_ . . .

A member of Mumtaz's guard burst through the doorway, then remembered himself and salaamed deeply to the prince. Guards around Jadar already had their swords half drawn.

"Forgive a fool, Highness." He fell to his knees, just in case. "I'm ordered to report that your son is born. The _dai_ says he's perfectly formed and has the lungs of a cavalry commander."

Cheers swept the room, and the air blossomed with flying turbans. Jadar motioned the terrified man closer and he nervously knelt again, this time directly before Jadar.

"The _dai_ respectfully asks if it would please Your Highness to witness the cord-cutting ceremony. She suggests a gold knife, instead of the usual silver."

Jadar barely heard the words, but he did recall that tradition allowed the midwife to keep the knife.

"She can have her knife of gold, and you are granted a thousand gold _mohurs_. But the cord will be cut with a string." This ceremony must be a signal to all India, Jadar told himself, and he tried to recall exactly the tradition started by Akman for newborn Moghul princes. The birth cord of all Akman's three sons was cut with a silken string, then placed in a velvet bag with writings from the Quran, and kept under the new child's pillow for forty days.

The guard salaamed once more, his face in the carpet, and then scurried toward the door, praising Allah. As Jadar rose and made his way toward the corridor, a chant of "Jadar-o-Akbar," "Jadar is Great," rose from the cheering Rajputs. Every man knew that with an heir, the prince was at last ready to claim his birthright. And they would fight beside him for it.

Mumtaz lay against a bolster, a fresh scarf tied around her head and a roller bound about her abdomen, taking a draft of strong, garlic- scented asafetida gum as Jadar came into the room. He immediately knew she was well, for this anti-cold precaution was taken only after the placenta was expelled and the mother's well-being a.s.sured. Next to her side was a box of betel leaves, rolled especially with myrrh to purge the taste of the asafetida.

"My congratulations, Highness." The _dai_ salaamed awkwardly from the bedside. "May it please you to know the child is blind of an eye."

Jadar stared at her dumbfounded, then remembered she was a local Hindu midwife, from Gujarat province, where the birth of a boy is never spoken of, lest the G.o.ds grow jealous of the parents' good fortune and loose the Evil Eye. Instead, boys were announced by declaring the child blind in one eye. No precautions against divine jealousy were thought necessary for a girl child, a financial liability no plausible G.o.d would covet.

The _dai_ returned to washing Mumtaz's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, stroking them carefully with wet blades of gra.s.s. Jadar knew this local ritual was believed to ensure fortune for the child and he did not interrupt. He merely returned Mumtaz's weak smile and strode to the silver basin resting by the bedside, where another midwife was washing his new son in a murky mixture of gram flour and water.

The frightened woman dried off the child, brushed his head with perfumed oil, and placed him on a thin pillow of quilted calico for Jadar to see. He was red and wrinkled and his dark eyes were startled.

But he was a prince.

Jadar touched the infant's warm hand as he examined him for imperfections. There were none.

Someday, my first son, you may rule India as Moghul. If we both live that long.

"Is he well?" Mumtaz spoke at last, her normally shrill voice now scarcely above a whisper. "Are you pleased?"

"He'll do for now." Jadar smiled as he examined her tired face. She had never seemed as beautiful as she did at this moment. He knew there was no way he could ever show his great love for her, but he knew she understood. And returned it. "Do these unbelievers know enough to follow Muslim tradition?"

"Yes. A mullah has been summoned to sound the _azan_, the call to prayer, in his ear."

"But a male child must first be announced with artillery. So he'll never be afraid to fight." Jadar wasn't sure how much belief he put in all these Muslim traditions, but the troops expected it and every ceremony for this prince had to be observed. Lest superst.i.tions begin that he was somehow ill-fated. Superst.i.tions are impossible to bury.

"This one is a prince. He will be greeted with cannon. Then I'll immediately have his horoscope cast--for the Hindu troops--and schedule his naming ceremony--for the Believers."

"What will you name him?"

"His first name will be Nushirvan. You can pick the others."

"Nushirvan was a haughty Persian king. And it's an ugly name."

"It's the name I've chosen." Jadar smiled wickedly, still mulling over what name he would eventually pick.

Mumtaz did not argue. She had already selected the name Salaman, the handsome young man Persian legends said was once created by a wise magician. Salaman was an ideal lover. Whatever name Jadar chose, Salaman would be his second name. And the one she would call him all the coming years in the _zenana_, when he would creep into her bed after Jadar had departed for his own quarters.

And we'll see what name he answers to seven years hence, on his circ.u.mcision day.

The _dai _was busy spooning a mixture of honey, ghee, and opium into the child's mouth. Then a drop of milk was pressed from Mumtaz's breast and rubbed on the breast of the wet nurse. Jadar watched the ritual with approval. Now for the most important tradition, the one begun by Akman.

"Is the wrap ready?"

Akman had believed that the first clothes a Moghul prince wore should be fashioned from an old garment of a Muslim holy man, and he had requested a garment from the revered Sayyid Ali Shjirazi for his first son. The custom had become fixed for the royal family.

"It's here. The woman in Surat heard a child was due and had this sent to me in Agra before we left." She pointed to a folded loincloth, which had been washed to a perfect white. "It was once worn by that Sufi you adore, Samad."

"Good. I'm glad it's from Samad. But what woman in Surat do you mean?"

"You know who she is." Mumtaz looked around the crowded room, and switched from Turki to Persian. "She sent the weekly reports of Mukarrab Khan's affairs, and handled all the payments to those who collected information in Surat."

Jadar nodded almost imperceptibly. "That one. Of course I remember her.

Her reports were always more reliable than the Shahbandar's. I find I can never trust any number that thief gives me. I always have to ask myself what he would wish it to be, and then adjust. But what happened to her? I learned a month ago that Mukarrab Khan was being sent to Goa.

I think a certain woman of power in Agra finally realized I was learning everything that went on at the port before she was, and thought Mukarrab Khan had betrayed her."

"The Surat woman didn't go to Goa with Mukarrab Khan. She made him divorce her. It was a scandal." Mumtaz smiled mysteriously. "You should come to the women's quarters more often, and learn the news."

"But what happened to her?"