The Moghul Part 57

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 pet.i.tions he favored, holding in advis.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.s 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 s.p.a.cious 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 amba.s.sador 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."