The Moghul Part 81

"If you look at it like that, I suppose you could be right."

"With music, we first have to learn its language, then learn to open our spirit. Lovemaking is just the same."

She nestled her head against his chest, sending her warmth through him.

As he held her, he noticed lying alongside the pool the garland of flowers she had worn the night before. He reached and took it and slipped it over her head. Then he kissed her gently, finding he was indeed filled with wonder at the feeling he had for her.

He held her silently for a time, looking at the paintings on the walls of the palace around them. Then he noticed a large straw basket at the entryway.

"What is that?" He pointed.

She rose and looked. "I think it's something Samad had left for us."

She lifted herself out of the water and, holding her wrap against her, brought the basket. It was filled with fruits and melons.

"They're not from Samarkand or Kabul, like you've probably grown accustomed to at the palace in Agra. But I think you'll like them anyway." She squinted across the square, in the direction of the mosque. "I love Samad dearly. He did all of this for me. But he refuses to listen to anything I say." She handed him an apple, then reached and took some grapes. "You know, I think he secretly wants to die a martyr.

Like a lover eager to die for his or her beloved. He wants to die for his wild freedom, for what he thinks is beautiful. Perhaps to be remembered as one who never bowed to anyone. I wish I had his strength."

"Where's he now?"

"You won't see him any more. But he's still here. He'll have food sent to us. He loves me like a daughter, and he's happy when I am. And he knows now you make me happy. But you mustn't see him here again, even know that he's here. It would be too dangerous for you. Perhaps someday, if we're all still alive."

He took her face in his hands and held it up to him. "You have as much strength as anyone, including Samad. And I want to get you away from here before your strength makes you do something foolish. I love you more than my own life."

"And I love you. Like I've never loved anyone."

"Not even the Great Moghul? When you were in his _zenana_?"

She laughed. "You know that was very different. I was scarcely more than a girl then. I didn't know anything."

"You learned a few things somewhere." He remembered the night past, still astonished. The way she had . . .

"In the _zenana _you learn everything about lovemaking. But nothing about love." She rose and took his hand. Together they walked to the open portico of the palace. Around them the red pavilions were empty in the early sunshine. The morning was still, save for the cries of the green parrots who scurried across eaves and peered down impa.s.sively from weathered red railings and banisters. His gaze followed the wide arches, then turned to her dark shining hair. He reached out and stroked it.

"Tell me more about it. How did you learn Turki?"

"In the _zenana_. We had to learn it, even though Arangbar speaks perfect Persian." She turned to him. "And how did you learn to understand it?"

"In a Turkish prison." He laughed. "It seems about the same to me. I had to learn it too."

"Will you tell me about it? Why were you in prison?"

"Like you, I had no choice. The Turks took a ship I was commanding, in the Mediterranean."

"Tell me what happened."

He stopped and looked at her. "All right. We'll trade. You tell me all about you and I'll tell you everything about me. We'll leave out nothing. Agreed?" She reached and kissed him. "Will you begin first?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The imminent wedding of Prince Allaudin and Princess Layla was a momentous event in the history of the Moghul empire. It represented the final merging of two dynasties. One, that of the Moghul Akman and his first son Arangbar, was in direct a.s.sent from the Mongols of the steppes who had conquered India by the sword less than a century before, melding under one rule a disorganized array of Muslim and Hindu states. The other dynasty, that of Queen Janahara, her Persian father Zainul Beg, her brother Nadir Sharif, and now her daughter Layla, represented a very different kind of conqueror. At court they were called, always in whispers, the "Persian junta."

Whereas no combination of forces indigenous to India--even the recalcitrant Rajput warrior chieftains of the northwest--had ever succeeded in wresting power from the invading Moghuls, this extraordinary Persian family had, in one generation, come to rule India virtually as equals with the dynasty of Akman, a.s.suming the power that the decadent Arangbar had let slowly slip away. With the marriage of Queen Janahara's daughter to the weakling son of Arangbar, a son she was carefully promoting to the role of heir-apparent, the last element in the Persian strategy would be in place. When Arangbar died, or was dethroned, the powerful line of Akman, who had unified India by a blend of force and diplomatic marriages, would be supplanted by what was, in effect, a palace coup. The "Persian junta" would have positioned itself to a.s.sume effective control of India: Prince Allaudin, for so long as he was allowed to maintain even the appearance of rule, would be nothing more than a t.i.tular sovereign. Queen Janahara, together with her father and her brother, would be the real ruler of India.

The queen could, of course, have contented herself for a time longer merely to direct Arangbar from beside the throne, but that could never be entirely satisfactory. Arangbar still wielded power when he so chose, and that power could be enormous.

India had no independent judiciary, no parliament, no const.i.tution.

There was, instead and only, the word of the Moghul. Criminals were brought before him to be tried and sentenced. Offices of state were filled, or vacated, on his personal whim. The army marched at his word.

And he owned, in effect, a large part of Indian soil, since large estates went not to heirs but returned to the Moghul when their current "owner" died. He granted lands and salaries as reward for loyalty and service. And he alone granted t.i.tles. Seldom in history had a land so vast, and a people so diverse, been held so absolutely under the unquestioned rule of a single hand. Queen Janahara now looked confidently forward to the day that hand would be hers.

The power Arangbar now possessed was thought by many to have brought his own undoing. Originally an introspective if sometimes whimsical sovereign--whose early memoirs were filled with scientific observations on India's fauna and flora, and statesman-like ruminations on the philosophy of governing--he had become slowly dissolute to the point of incapacity. A man who had forsworn both alcohol and drugs until well into his third decade of life, he was now hopelessly addicted to both.

In consequence his judgment and instincts had grown ever more unreliable. And since all appointments of salary and place depended on his word alone, no career or fortune was truly secure. It was into this vacuum of sound leadership that the "Persian junta" of Janahara's family had moved.

The Persian junta was supported by all those at court who feared Arangbar's growing caprice, by other influential Persians, by the powerful mullahs of the Shi'ite sect of Islam, by Hindus who still habored historic grievances against Moghul rule . . . and by the Portuguese. The "Persian junta" was not loved. But it did not need to be loved; it enjoyed an even more compelling ingredient for success: it was feared. Even those who might have preferred the succession of Prince Jadar wisely held silent. The tides of history were there for all to see.

Even Brian Hawksworth saw them.

The private palace of Zainul Beg, father of Janahara and Nadir Sharif and grandfather of Princess Layla, was more modest than that of Nadir Sharif, and its architecture more Persian, almost consciously reminiscent of the land of his birth. It lay on the banks of the Jamuna River, farther down from the palace of Nadir Sharif, and this evening it was brilliantly illuminated by bonfires along the riverside. Even the river itself was lighted. A dozen barks filled with lamps had been towed upriver from the Red Fort, and now their camphor-oil flames cast a dazzling white sheen over the pink turrets of the palace. On the opposite bank of the Jamuna, men were lighting candles and floating them in hollow clay pots across the surface of the water, where they drifted gently downstream toward the Red Fort, creating a line of illumination that would eventually stretch for miles.

Although Hawksworth's money was starting to grow short, he had used a large portion of what was left to purchase a new pair of striped Indian trousers, an expensive brocade turban, and ornate velvet slippers. He alighted from his palanquin at the palace gate looking like a Moghul grandee, to be greeted almost immediately by Zainul Beg's eunuchs and ushered into the main hall. As he entered, the eunuchs directed him toward a large silver fish stationed by the door. It was ornamented with green lapis lazuli scales and fitted with seven spouts shooting thin streams of rosewater outward into a large basin. Hawksworth was by now accustomed to this Moghul ritual, and he quickly removed his new slippers and splashed his feet in the basin to the minimal extent acceptable. Then he turned and made his way through the line of n.o.bles reverently awaiting the arrival of Arangbar. He had become such a familiar sight at royal gatherings that his presence excited no unusual notice.

The marble walls of the hall were hung with new Persian tapestries and the floors covered with silk carpets embroidered with silver and gold.

At the corners were immense vases of solid gold studded with precious stones that sparkled in the lamp light. Incense burners wrought from silver hung from the walls. Servants circulated among the crowd bearing trays of rolled betel leaves, gla.s.ses of lemony _sharbat_, and cups of green milky _bhang_. In deference to the ceremonial significance of this holy Muslim occasion, there would be no wine until after the Shi'ite mullahs had left. Hawksworth decided to take a gla.s.s of _sharbat _and wait for the wine.

He strolled through the buzzing crowd of bejeweled men and anonymous, veiled women and reflected on the bizarre ceremonies of a Moghul marriage.

His first taste had come only the previous evening, when he had been invited to the Red Fort to witness and take part in the henna _bandi _ceremony. The square just below the _Diwan-i-Khas_, where Arangbar's birthday weighing was held only two weeks before, had been cleared and made ready for the henna ceremony. Hawksworth had arrived and been granted a place near Nadir Sharif and Arangbar. The crowd was already being entertained by music and dancing women. Allaudin was there, slightly nervous in antic.i.p.ation of his upcoming ordeal.

Then the procession arrived: women of the _zenana _rode into the courtyard on palanquins, in a flower-bedecked line bearing henna--a red paste extracted from the plant of the same name--and gifts sent from Layla to Allaudin. The bride was not present; she had not yet been seen by Allaudin or any of his family, including Arangbar. The women of the _zenana_, all veiled, spread before the Moghul the gifts that, on this night, the bride was expected to present to the bridegroom. The eunuchs bore trays which had been covered with basketwork raised in domes, over which were thrown draperies of gold cloth and brocade in a rainbow of colors. They were brought before Allaudin and Arangbar and uncovered one by one. The first tray was of beaten silver and it held a new suit for the bridegroom, a tailored cloak and trousers woven with strands of gold. Others bore gold and silver vessels containing cosmetics and toiletries--collyrium, kohl, musky perfumes--and plates of sweets, betel leaves tied with strings of gold, and a confectionary of dried fruits and preserves. The eunuchs also brought in sprays of flowers containing disguised fireworks wheels, which were ignited as they entered to create a startling, fiery garden of color.

Next the women led Allaudin to rooms behind the _Diwan-i-Khas_, where he was dressed in the new clothes provided for him by the bride. Bamboo slats were placed across the doorway to enable the _zenana _women to watch the ceremony. While he was gone, an opening was prepared in the screen separating the _zenana _from the courtyard and a low stool was placed just outside. The screen was specially constructed to allow the hands and feet of the one sitting on the stool to be reached from behind it.

When Allaudin returned, he a.s.sumed his place again beside Arangbar, shifting occasionally in mild discomfort from the stiff new clothes. It was obvious to Hawksworth that he wished to appear bored by the ceremonies, but his eyes betrayed his apprehension.

Then a eunuch approached and announced to the male a.s.sembly--Arangbar, Allaudin, Nadir Sharif, Zainul Beg, and a retinue of other men with vague ties to royal blood who were waiting at the center of the courtyard--that "the bridegroom is wanted."

"Go quickly." Arangbar pushed Allaudin toward the stool waiting in front of the screen covering the entrance to the zenana. "It's always a man's fate to be made the fool by his women."

Allaudin marched across the courtyard with as much dignity as his stiff new clothes allowed, and seated himself with a flourish on the stool.

The air was rich with incense and music from the upper balconies. As Hawksworth and the other male guests watched, women from behind the screen ordered Allaudin to insert his hands and feet through the new holes. He was then teased and fed small lumps of sugar candy while the women behind the screen began to tie dark red cloths, soaked in a paste of moist leaves of henna, onto his hands and feet.

"This ceremony is very important, Inglish." Arangbar had beamed with satisfaction as he watched. "Henna is a charm to promote their union.

The women anoint the bride with it also, in private. It will make him virile and her fertile."

As the women continued to dye Allaudin's hands and feet with the paste, musicians and singers began to entertain him. Some of the songs, all extemporary, lauded him as a prince among men, while others rhapsodized over the beauty of the bride. Listening to their songs, Hawksworth had to remind himself that none of the singers had actually seen the bride, whose beauty they now extolled as that of one woman in thousands. Then the singers sang of the impending happiness of the pair, as inevitable, they declared, as that Paradise awaiting Believers after life on earth is past.