The Moghul Part 87

"I think I understand." Father Pinheiro again swabbed the moisture from his brow. "But Father Sarmento . . ."

"What possible concern could Father Sarmento have with decisions made by His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes? He is the Viceroy." Nadir Sharif nodded toward a pudgy eunuch hovering at the doorway, who immediately entered with a tray of betel leaves, signaling that the meeting was adjourned.

"His Excellency will undoubtedly be most appreciative of your thoughts." Pinheiro paused. "Still, wouldn't it be prudent to advise Her Majesty, lest she mistake our Viceroy's intentions?"

"I will attend to it." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "You must be aware, however, that if His Majesty chooses to respond irresponsibly, I will know nothing about any action that may be taken. The Viceroy must weather his own seas."

"Naturally." Pinheiro bowed. "You have always been a friend. I thank you, and bless you in G.o.d's name."

"Your thanks are sufficient." Nadir Sharif smiled again and watched as the Jesuit was led through the scalloped doorway by the waiting eunuch.

Only when he turned back to the window did he realize his palms were drenched with perspiration.

Arangbar moved groggily through the arched corridor carrying a fresh silver cup of wine and quietly humming the motif of his favorite Hindustani raga. His afternoon nap in the _zenana _had been fitful, unusually so, and when he finally admitted to himself why, he had dismissed the two young women who waited to pleasure him, retrieved his jeweled turban, and waved aside the attending eunuchs. He had announced he wanted to stroll among the fruit trees in the courtyard of the Anguri Bagh, which lay down the marble steps from the Khas Mahal, the breezy upper pavilion of the _zenana_. But when he reached the trees, he had turned and slipped through his private doorway leading to the women's apartments in the lower level of the fort.

The _zenana _was quiet, even the eunuchs were dozing, and no one noticed when he pa.s.sed along the shadowed afternoon corridor toward the circular staircase leading to the lower apartments. As he began to descend the curved stone steps, he felt his legs momentarily grow unsteady, and he paused to rest against the hard polished wall, tightening his light brocade cloak against the cooler air and taking a short sip of wine for warmth. Then he continued on, carefully feeling for each step in the dim light of the overhead oil lamps.

He emerged on the next level and stopped to catch his breath on the balcony that opened out over the Jamuna. This was the level where he had built private apartments for his favorite women, and behind him was the large room, with a painted cupola ceiling high above a large rose- shaped marble fountain, which he had granted to one of his Hindu wives.

(Now he could no longer recall precisely who she was; she had reached thirty some time past and he had not summoned her to his couch in many years.) Since she was a devout Hindu, he had ordered it decorated with brilliantly colored scenes from the Ramayana. The room itself was cooled by a high waterfall in the rear that murmured down an inclined and striated marble slab. Stairways on either side of the room curved around to an overhead balcony, directly above where he now stood, which was the post where eunuchs waited when the women came to cool themselves by the fountain.

The balcony where he now stood jutted out from the fort, supported by thick sandstone columns, and from his position he could look along the side of the fort and see the Jasmine Tower of Queen Janahara. When he realized he also could be seen, he instinctively stepped back into the cool corridor.

The women were inside their apartments, asleep, and the corridor empty as he began to descend the circular stairs leading to the next level below, the quarters for eunuchs and female servants. As he rounded the last curve of the stair and emerged into the light, three eunuchs stared up in shock from their game of cards. It vaguely registered that they probably were gambling, which he had strictly prohibited in the _zenana_, but he decided to ignore it this afternoon.

The circular pasteboard cards of the eunuchs' scattered across the stone floor as they hurried to _teslim_. He paused to

drink again from the cup and absently studied the painted faces on the cards dropped by the eunuch nearest him. It was not a bad hand. Lying on the marble were four high cards from the _bishbar_, powerful, suits-- the lord of horses, the king of elephants, the king of infantry, and the throned _wazir _of the fort--and three from the _kambar_, weaker, suits--the king of snakes, the king of divinities, and the throned queen. He stared for a moment at the king of elephants, the suit he always preferred to play, and wondered at the happenstance that the king had fallen beneath the queen, whose face covered his golden crown.

He shrugged it away as coincidence and turned toward the stairs leading to the next lower level.

Two more levels remained.

The air was increasingly musty now, noticeably smoky from the lamps, and he hurried on, reaching the next landing without stopping. The windows on this level had shrunk to only a few hand spans, and now they were secured with heavy stone latticework. The eunuchs were arguing at the other end of the corridor and failed even to notice him. He told himself to try to remember this, and drank again as he paused to listen to the metrical splash of the Jamuna lapping against the outer wall.

Then he stepped quietly down the last flight of stairs.

The final level. As he emerged into the corridor, two guarding eunuchs who had been dozing leaped to their feet and drew swords before recognizing him. Both fell on their face in _teslim_, their turbans tumbling across the stone floor.

Arangbar said nothing, merely pointed toward a doorway at the end of the corridor. The startled eunuchs strained against their fat as they lifted torches from the walls and then turned officiously to lead the way. As they walked, Arangbar paused to stare through an arched doorway leading into a large domed room off the side of the hall. A dozen eunuchs were inside, some holding torches while others laced a white cotton rope through a wooden pulley attached to the lower side of a heavy wooden beam that spanned the room, approximately ten feet above the floor.

The two eunuchs with Arangbar also stopped, wondering

if His Majesty had come to supervise the hanging that afternoon of the two _zenana _women who had been discovered in a flagrant s.e.xual act in the Shish Mahal, the mirrored _zenana _baths.

Arangbar studied the hanging room for a moment with glazed eyes, not remembering that he had sentenced the women that same morning, and then waved the guards on along the corridor, past the doors that secured dark cells. These were the cells used to confine women who had broken _zenana _regulations.

At the end of the corridor was a door wider than the others, and behind it was a special cell, with a window overlooking the Jamuna. He walked directly to the door and drank again from his cup as he ordered it opened. The guards were there at once, keys jangling. The door was ma.s.sive and thick, and it creaked heavily on its hinges as they pushed it slowly inward.

From the gloom came the unmistakable fragrance of musk and sandalwood.

He inhaled it for a moment and it seemed to penetrate his memory, calling up long forgotten pleasures. Grasping the door for support, he moved past the bowing guards and into the cell. There, standing by the small barred window, her face caught in a shaft of afternoon sun, was Shirin.

Her eyes were carefully darkened with kohl and her mouth red and fresh.

She wore a gossamer scarf decorated with gold thread, and a thin skirt that betrayed the curve of her thighs against the outline of her flowered trousers. The musty air of the room was immersed in her perfume, as though by her very being she would defy the walls of her prison. She looked just as he had remembered.

She turned and stared at him for a moment, seeming not to believe what she saw. Then her eyes hardened.

"Shall I _teslim _before my sentence?"

Arangbar said nothing as he examined her wordlessly, sipping slowly from his almost-empty cup. Now more than ever he realized why she had once been his favorite. She could bring him to ecstasy, and then recite Persian poetry to him for hours. She had been exquisite.

"You're as beautiful as ever. Too beautiful. What do you expect me to do with you?"

"I expect that I will die, Your Majesty. That, I think, is the usual sentence for the women who disobey you."

"You could have stayed in Surat, where you were sent. Or gone on to Goa with the husband I gave you. But instead you returned here. Why?"

Arangbar eased himself onto the stone bench beside the door.

"I don't think you would understand, Majesty."

"Did you come because of the Inglish _feringhi?_ I learned yesterday that you conspired to meet with him. It displeased me very much."

"He was not responsible, Majesty. I met with him because I chose to.

But I came to Agra to be with Samad again." Her voice began to tremble slightly. "Samad is guilty of nothing, except defiance of the Shi'ite mullahs. You know that as well as I. If you want to hear me beg for him, I will."

Arangbar seemed not to notice the tear that stained the kohl beneath one eye. "It was a death sentence for you to disobey me and come back.

Perhaps you actually want to die."

"Is there nothing you would die for, Majesty?"

Arangbar stared for a moment at the window, its hexagonal grillwork throwing a pattern across his glazed eyes. He seemed to be searching for words. "Yes, perhaps I might die for India. Perhaps someday soon I will. But I would never die for the glory of Islam." His gaze came back to Shirin. "And certainly not for some half-naked Sufi mullah."

"Samad is not a mullah." By force of will she held any trace of shrillness from her voice. "He is a Persian poet. One of the greatest ever. You know that. He defies the Shi'ites because he will not bow to their dogma."

"The Shi'ites want his head." Arangbar examined his empty cup and tossed it to the floor, listening as the silver rang hard against the stone. "It seems a small price for tranquility."

"Whose tranquility? Theirs?" The tears were gone now, her eyes again defiant.

"Mine. Every day I'm flooded with pet.i.tions about this or that heresy.

It wearies and consumes me. Samad ignored the laws of Islam, and he has followers."

" You ignore the laws of Islam."

Arangbar laughed. "It's true. Between us, I despise the mullahs. You know I once told them I had decided to become a Christian, because I enjoyed eating pork and the Prophet denied it to all men. The next day they brought the Quran and declared although it was true pork was denied to men, the Prophet said nothing specifically about what a king could eat. So there was no need for me to become a Christian." He paused and sobered. "But Samad is not a king. He is a well-known Sufi.

The mullahs claim that if he's dead, the inspiration for heresy will die with him. They say his death will serve as an example. I hear this everywhere, even from Her Majesty."

"Her Majesty?" Shirin searched for his eyes as she spoke, but they were shrouded in shadow. "Does she make laws for you now?"

"She disrupts my tranquility with all her talk about Islam and Shi'ites. Perhaps it's age. She never used to talk about the Shi'ites.