The Great Mogul

To add to the seemingly inextricable confusion, pariah dogs prowled in the gutter, bullock-carts crept along complainingly, stealthy footed camels lurched through the crowd, palanquins, borne on the shoulders of chanting carriers, passed swiftly amidst the vortex, and the two travelers encountered at least one native carriage, painted green and gold, and drawn by two white Dekkàni bullocks, conveying a party of Hindu women to the temple of Mahadeo, God of Love.

The occupants were young and pretty, too, clad in silks and laden with jewels, as could be readily seen by a peep through the folds of the chudda, left carelessly open, and they laughed musically as they caught sight of the Englishmen’s eyes turned towards them.

“’Tis clear enough that Akbar is a strong ruler and a just one,” said Walter, his white teeth showing in a smile at the merry party of girls.

“Such is his repute,” answered Roger.

“Repute may belie a man. Here is ample proof. In a Mahomedan city I find Hindus in excess. Amidst a strangely assorted crowd, pretty women drive abroad in brave display of gold and gems. I reason that every man knows he is protected by the law and a woman need fear no insult. ’Tis not so in another great city we wot of.”

“Ecod, I was just thinking of London. Not that I know much of the place, but the babel of the bazaar brought to mind the Fleet. Ah, Walter Mowbray, ’twas a queer gate we opened when you drew on my Lord Dereham and I heaved him over the wall.”

“We were heedless youths then. Now we are grave merchants and must comport ourselves as such. I fancy it would better become our peaceful character had we left our swords at the caravansary.”

“I’ faith, I differ from you. Some chuck might have a notion to measure our bales by our blades, and I like ever to give a man an ell for a yard by that reckoning.”

So saying, Roger significantly tapped the handle of the tremendous weapon fashioned for him by an armorer at Ahmedabad. Slung from his right shoulder by a baldric, the sword was nearly four feet in length, perfectly straight, double-edged, and strong in the forte. Probably there was not its like in all India, as the expert native swordsman finds delight in manipulating a curved scimitar, with razor edge and tiny grip. The Indian uses the sword to cut, the lance and the dagger to stab.

Mowbray shook his head.

“There is so much at stake on this venture,” said he, “that I hope we may keep clear of quarrels. Remember, I wrote to Nellie Roe telling her, if fortune smiles on us, we should return to England by the first ship that sails from Surat after we have adjusted accounts with Edwards. Let us sell our silks and spices as best we may and haste back to the coast with lighter and speedier convoy.”

Roger laughed, so loudly and cheerily that many an eye was turned towards him.

“By the cross of Osmotherly!” he cried, “that letter hath made thee a parson. Yet I heard naught of this when Suráj Mul barred the way at Ajmere, and you and I rode down his sowars as if they were painted men and not bewhiskered knaves of flesh and blood, though of the black sort.”

“Mayhap the near end of our journey hath made me serious minded.”

“Now, I think with you, but I arrive at the same end by a different road. Our swords have done us good service. Let them keep in use and they may earn us hilts of gold. But how now? Do we leave the city?”

Their guide had led them to the bank of the Jumna, where a bridge of boats spanned the stream. In reply to a question by Walter, the man told them that the house of the Diwán, or Prime Minister, lay on the other side of the river.

They followed him, crossed the shaking bridge which made their horses nervous, and climbed the steep bank opposite. Away to the right, on the city side of the Jumna, they could see the high piled red sandstone battlements of the palace, with some of its white marble buildings glistening in the sunlight over the top of the frowning ramparts. A winding road led towards the castle along the left bank of the river, and, in the far distance, they could distinguish a gay cavalcade of horsemen, whose burnished ornaments and arms shone in the sun with dazzling gleams.

“What pageant may that be?” asked Walter of the guide.

“The King of Kings may ride forth in state, sahib, or Prince Jahangir may go to the chase. I know not. At this season such spectacles are common in Agra.”

“’Tis a brave show,” muttered Roger. “This Agra must be a grand place to loot.”

They lost sight of the cortège and halted in front of a strong but exceedingly beautiful gateway, fashioned in a Saracenesque arch of white marble, and bedecked with scrollwork wrought in precious stones, with a text in Persi-Arabic over the porch.

Whilst the guide spoke to a guard, Walter deciphered the script: —

“http:‘May Allah prosper all who enter and all who leave this dwelling!’ A most noble wish,” he said, “and one which I reciprocate to the full.”

“These Mahmouds have a way of uttering a prayer when they cut your throat,” growled Roger. “They never kill a duck but they chant a verse of their scripture to mark the beheading. Now, I’ll warrant me this is a canting rogue at the best.”

The gate was thrown open. Between its portals was revealed a vista of a most delightful garden, where roses hung in festoons and all manner of beautiful shrubs gave shade to pleasant lawns or were reflected in the placid depths of clear lakes. Half hidden among lofty trees they saw the low towers of a mansion built wholly of white marble, and decorated, like the gate, with flower-like devices wrought in topaz, and carnelians, and blue, red, and green gems that sparkled with the fire of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds.

“The inmate may have the heart of a rogue, but he has the eye of an angel,” said Walter. “Is this the house of Itimad-ud-Daula?” he went on, in Urdu.

“It is, sahib,” answered the guide.

“And how is it called?”

“Bagh-i-dilkusha, sahib.”

“The Garden of Heart’s Delight!” He turned to Roger. “And well named, too. If ever a place deserved such title methinks we are looking at it now.”

“I vow he has been dreaming of Nellie Roe all night,” growled Roger to himself as they dismounted. “I never knew him in such mood. Gad! he is either sickening for a fever or he will write a set of verses ere sunset.”

They were asked to wait in the barámada, or porch, until a messenger took particulars of their errand to the Diwán. But fortune smiled on them that day and carried them far. The man had scarce set out towards the house when the clatter of a horse, hard ridden, announced the approach of some cavalier in hot haste.

The animal was reined in with remarkable celerity without, and the rider entered the garden hurriedly. He checked his speed, however, when he saw strangers, and not even the well-bred hauteur affected by the Persian nobles of Akbar’s court enabled him wholly to conceal the surprise with which he beheld Sainton.

Walter stepped forward and bowed.

“We are English merchants,” he said, “and we seek an audience of the illustrious Itimad-ud-Daula. These servitors are dull-witted and may not explain our errand. Perchance, if you have affairs with his Excellency, you will be good enough to convey to him our request.”

The newcomer, a handsome, noble-looking man of thirty-five or thereabouts, laughed with a certain frankness that bespoke an open character.

“Traders!” cried he. “Had you said soldiers I might have better understood you. In what commodity do you deal? Is it aught to eat or drink? If so, on my soul, your friend gives good warrant of its virtues.”

“Unhappily our land is too far distant to permit us to produce other than a sample of what our meat and wine can achieve. But we have ample stock of rare silks and rich spices of Araby and Gondar. If the ladies of this charming city are as fair to behold and as richly adorned as all else we have seen then our journey from Surat to the court of Akbar shall not have been made in vain.”

Mowbray’s easy diction and the distinction of his manner astounded the hearer quite as much as did Roger’s proportions. The Persian, a born gentleman, well knew he was talking to his equal of another clime.

“You and your wares could not have arrived at better season,” he said gravely; “but I never yet met merchant so unlike a merchant as you and your gigantic companion.”

Walter’s quick intuition told him that here was one who might be a good friend. It was important to stand well with him and leave room for no dubiety. So, in a few well-chosen sentences, he told how it came about that he and Roger brought a pack-train to Agra. The mere mention of Edwards’s name cleared up the mystery so far as his hearer was concerned.

“Edwards!” he cried, “a fat man, who struts as he walks and coughs loudly to command respect?”

Mowbray admitted that the description fitted his partner sufficiently well.

“You know he has been here himself in years past?” went on the Persian.

“Yes. The knowledge he gained then led to the proper selection of our merchandise.”

“Did he not tell you what befell him?”

“Little of any consequence.”

“He carried himself so ill that he bred a low repute of your nation. He suffered blows from porters, and was thrust out of many places head and shoulders by base peons without seeking satisfaction. Yet he showed some judgment in choosing you two as his agents. Name him to none. Strive to forget him until you rate him for sending you hither without warning.”

No more unpleasing revelation could have been made. Walter was fully aware of the difficulties which faced Europeans in India at that date. The vain and proud Orientals lost no opportunity of humiliating strangers. A cool and resolute bearing was the only sure fence against the insults and petty annoyances offered by minor officials. It was, therefore, vexing to the uttermost degree that Edwards had endured contumely and not even prepared them for a hostile reception. For the moment, Mowbray felt so disturbed that he was minded to retire to the caravansary to consider his next step, when Sainton, who understood the latter part of the conversation well enough, strode forward.

“Where be the peons you spoke of, friend?” said he. “’Tis fine weather, and the exercise you spoke of, if practised on me, will give them a zest for the midday meal.”

This time the stranger laughed as heartily as etiquette permitted.

“No, no,” he cried, “such minions demand their proper subject. Now, do you two come with me and I shall put your business in a fair way towards speedy completion.”

Talking the while, and telling them his name was Sher Afghán, he led them through the garden towards the house. The deep obeisances of the doorkeepers showed that he was held of great consequence, and none questioned his right to introduce the two Englishmen to the sacred interior. They passed through several apartments of exceeding beauty and entered another garden, in which, to the bewilderment of the visitors, who knew what the close seclusion of the zenana implied, they saw several ladies, veiled indeed, but so thinly that anyone close at hand might discern their features.

Courteously asking them to wait near the exit from the house, their Persian acquaintance quitted them and sought a distant group.

He salaamed deeply before a richly attired female and pointed towards Mowbray and Sainton. Then he explained something to a dignified looking old man, robed in flowing garments of white muslin, whose sharp eyes had noted the advent of the strangers the moment they appeared.

With this older couple was a slim girl. When the others moved slowly across the grass towards the place where Mowbray and Sainton stood, Sher Afghán hung back somewhat and spoke to the girl, who kept studiously away from him, and coyly adjusted her veil so that he might not look into her eyes. He seemed to plead with her, but his words fell on heedless ears.

Indeed, ere yet the aged Diwán had conducted Queen Mariam Zamáni, sultana of Akbar and mother of Jahangir, heir to the throne, sufficiently apart from her attendants to permit the strangers to be brought before her – the rank of the august lady enabling her to dispense with the Mahomedan seclusion of her sex – Sher Afghán’s gazelle-like companion ran forward and gazed fearlessly at Mowbray, wonderingly at Sainton.

“Their skins are not white but red!” she cried joyously. “Nevertheless one of them must come from the land of Tokay, which is famed for its white elephants.”

Hastily conquering his air of dejection the younger nobleman signed to the Englishmen to approach. They obeyed, without haste or awkwardness. Grasping their sword hilts in their left hands and doffing their hats with the elaborate courtesy of the age, they stood bareheaded before the elder pair, and certainly the kingdom of James I. had no cause to be ashamed of its latest representatives in the Mogul capital.

Roger Sainton had not his equal in height, in thickness of bone or strength of sinew, in all the wide empire governed by the most powerful of Indian monarchs, while Walter Mowbray’s splendid physique was in no wise dwarfed by the nearness of his gigantic comrade. They were good to look upon, and so the girl found them notwithstanding her jest.

She herself was beautiful to a degree not often seen even in a land of classic features and exquisitely molded figures. Her deep, violet eyes were guarded by long lashes which swept rounded cheeks of ivory tint, brightened by little spots of color which reminded the beholder of the gold and red on the sunny side of a ripe pomegranate. Her lips were parted, and her teeth, dazzlingly white, were so regular and large that they appeared to constitute the chief attraction of a singularly mobile and expressive mouth. Again she laughed, with a musical cadence that was quaint and fascinating: —

“May it please your Majesty,” she said, addressing the Sultana, “these are not merchants but courtiers.”

“May it please your Majesty,” said Walter, instantly, “we would fain be both.”

His apt retort in high-flown Persian was unexpected. His eyes encountered those of the girl, and they exchanged a glance of quick intelligence. She was pleased with him, and he offered her the silent homage which every young man of proper spirit pays to a beautiful and sprightly woman.

Her brilliant orbs said: “I will befriend you.”

In the same language he answered: “You are peerless among your sex.”

And such was the manner of the meeting between Walter Mowbray, son of him who fell on board the San José, and Nur Mahal, the baby girl who was saved from death in the Khaibar Pass twenty years earlier.

It was a meeting not devoid of present interest, and of great future import, yet it is probable that if Nellie Roe had witnessed it she might have been greatly displeased.

CHAPTER VII

“She’s beautiful, and therefore to be woo’d;She’s a woman, therefore to be won.” Shakespeare, “King Henry VI,” Part I.

Nur Mahal was a Persian, not a native of India. In her wondrous face the Occident blended with the Orient. Its contour, its creamy smoothness, the high forehead and delicately firm chin were of the West, and the East gave her those neatly coiled tresses of raven hue, those deeply pencilled eyebrows, beneath whose curved arches flashed, like twin stars, her marvelous eyes.

Her supple body was robed in a sari of soft, deep yellow silk, bordered with a device of fine needlework studded with gems. It draped her closely, in flowing lines, from waist to feet, and a fold was carried over her right shoulder to be held gracefully scarfwise in one hand. An exquisite plum colored silk vest, encrusted with gold embroidery, covered her finely molded bust, revealing yet modestly shielding each line and flexure of a form which might have served Pygmalion as the model of Galatea.

On her forehead sparkled a splendid jewel, an emerald surrounded by diamonds set en étoile. Around her swanlike throat was clasped a necklace of uncut emeralds, strung, at intervals, between rows of seed pearls. She wore no other ornament. Her tiny feet were encased in white silk slippers, and, an unusual sight in the East, their open bands revealed woven stockings of the same material.

But the daughter of the Persian refugee who had risen to such high place in Akbar’s court was bound neither by convention nor fashion. She fearlessly unveiled when she thought fit, and she taught the ladies of Agra to wear not only the bodice and the inner skirt but also a species of corset, whilst to her genius was due the wonderful perfume known as attar of roses.

Again, although more than twenty years of age at that time, she was unmarried, an amazing thing in itself when the social customs of Hindustan were taken into account.

Suddenly brought face to face with such a divinity, it was no small credit to Walter Mowbray that he kept his wits sufficiently to turn her laughing comment to advantage.

The Sultana was graciously pleased to smile.

“If your wares comport with your manners,” she said, “you will be welcome at the palace. We hold a bazaar there to-morrow, and novelties in merchandise are always acceptable on such occasions. Sher Afghán,” she continued, “see that the strangers are properly admitted to the Hall of Private Audience at the first hour appointed for those who bring articles for sale.”

The young nobleman bowed, as did Mowbray and Sainton, though the latter knew but little of the high-flown Persian in which the Sultana spoke.

Nur Mahal, who appeared to be on terms of great familiarity with her august visitor, whispered something to Queen Mariam which made the good lady laugh. Obviously, the comment had reference to Roger, and that worthy blushed, for a woman’s eyes could pierce his tough hide readily, there being no weapon to equal them known to mankind.

“She’s a bonny lass, yon,” he murmured to Walter, “and she has uncommonly high spirits. I never kent afore why a man should make a fool of himself for a woman, but now that I have seen one who is half an angel I am beginning to have a dim notion of the madness which seizes some folk.”

“There are others, but why only half an angel?” asked Mowbray with a smile, for the Queen had turned to address the Diwán.

“Because that is all we have seen. The hidden half is the devil in her. Mark me, Walter, there will be heads cracked in plenty before that fancy wench stops plaguing mankind.”

Courtesy was urging Sher Afghán to give some directions to the wanderers he had so greatly befriended, but inclination, always a willing steed, dragged him to the side of Nur Mahal.

“I came to ask what you needed most for the bazaar,” he said anxiously.

“Naught that you can bestow,” was the curt reply.

“Sweet one, your words chill my heart. ’Tis but a week since your father – ”

She stamped a foot imperiously and clenched her hands.

“I am not one of those to be dealt with as others choose,” she cried, though modulating her voice lest it should reach the Queen’s ears. “Why do you pester me? Your tall sheepskin cap affrights me. Take it and your ungainly presence to far-off Burdwán. I mean to abide in Agra.”

He bent low before her.

“A blow from the hand of my beloved is sweet as a grape from the hand of another,” he said, conscious, perhaps, of the manifest injustice of the attack on his personal appearance. Physically, he was a worthy mate even for such a goddess, and he had already won great renown in India by his prowess in the field and his skill in all manly exercises.

“Gladly would I bestow on you a whole bunch of such grapes,” she said, turning to follow the Sultana and her father. But a laughing shout from the interior of the house caused all eyes to seek its explanation.

“Well met, mother! Have you come, like me, to wring another lakh out of the Diwán?”

A young man, tall and well built and of pleasing aspect, notable for his broad chest and long arms, and attired in sumptuous garments, entered the garden. His words would have revealed his identity to Walter and Sainton had they not met him, two years earlier, at Surat. This was Prince Jahangir, the heir apparent.

His complexion was a ruddy nut brown, his eyes, if somewhat closely set, were strangely keen and piercing, and it was a peculiar and noticeable fact that he wore small gold earrings, in token of bondage to the great saint Sheikh Salem, to whose intercession, it was said, he owed his birth.

Jahangir did not trouble to conceal his emotions. His joyous glance, evoked more by the sight of Nur Mahal, it is to be feared, than by the unexpected presence of the Sultana, changed instantly to a scowl when he saw Sher Afghán. Moreover, he discovered the presence of the Englishmen, and he affected a tone of surprised displeasure.

“How now, Diwán!” he demanded. “Do you admit strangers to the privacy of your zenana?”

“These are merchants from Ahmedabad. The Queen has commanded them to show their wares at the palace,” was the courteous reply of the aged Prime Minister.

Jahangir smiled contemptuously. The foreigners in no wise disturbed him. He knew quite well that his insult had reached the one man for whom it was intended. Sher Afghán’s pale face grew dark with anger.

“Oh, it is matterless,” said the Prince, flippantly, and he addressed Nur Mahal with a ready smile that utterly banished the anger from his expressive features.

“Fair lady,” he said, “I have brought you a present. I know your fondness for all that is rare and beautiful. See if my gift will earn your approval.”

He clapped his hands, and a servant came, carrying a small gilded perch to which clung two snow-white pigeons, each fastened to the crossbar by a short silver chain.

Nur Mahal uttered a cry of pleasure. She ran to meet the man with arms outstretched.

“They are quite tame,” said the gratified Prince. “After a little while they will come at your call and perch on your wrist.”

She took the birds and caressed them softly. Suddenly, yielding to impulse, she unfastened a chain, and the pigeon, finding itself at liberty, darted up into the air and flew around in rapid circles, crying loudly to its mate the while.

“How did that happen?” demanded Jahangir.

“Thus,” she answered, freeing the second bird.

“But they are unused to the garden as yet. You have lost them.”

“Sooner that than take away their freedom. My heart weeps for all who are destined to captivity.”

“Then you weep for me, as I am truly your captive.”

“Ah, my bondage would be pleasant, and, like the birds, you could fly away when you chose.”

At that instant one of the pigeons dropped with angelic flutterings, and poised itself on the perch which the girl still held.

The other, timidly daring, followed its mate’s example, but settled on the same side.

“See!” cried Jahangir excitedly. “The choice is made. They come back to their fetters!”

“Your Highness will observe that there are two to dispute the vacant place,” interposed Sher Afghán.

The icy distinctness of his words showed that the significance of the little comedy played by Nur Mahal had not escaped him. The girl pouted. Jahangir wheeled about fiercely. A quarrel was imminent, but Queen Mariam stopped it.

“Sher Afghán,” she said, “you, who are a soldier, should not take much interest in this idle playing with doves. As I return soon to the palace, go with the strangers and let them exhibit their wares there after the midday meal. That will better suit my convenience than the customary hour to-morrow.”

Bowing silently, the Persian motioned to Mowbray and Sainton to follow him. He spoke no word, but a tumult raged within, and, at the gate, when a servant was slow in opening it, he felled the man with a blow. Instantly regretting the deed he gave the fellow a gold mohur, but his face was tense and his eyes blazed as he mounted his horse and rode silently with the two Englishmen through the midst of the gay retinue which had escorted Prince Jahangir from the palace. Guessing with fair accuracy the hidden meaning of the scene just enacted, Mowbray did not intrude on the sorrowful thoughts of his Persian friend.

“We are in luck’s way, Roger,” he said quietly. “We have escaped the Diwán and won the door of the Queen’s apartments. If the good lady be as ready to pay as she is to buy, this bazaar to-morrow should ease us of all our goods.”

“In which event we shall turn our faces westward?” asked Sainton.