The Great Mogul

“Assuredly. We must settle with Edwards, else I would take the river to Calcutta.”

“Ecod! From the manner in which you gazed at that hoity-toity lass in yellow silk I thought you were minded to dally in Agra.”

For some subtle reason the remark nettled Mowbray.

“We have already met two who are willing to come to blows about her,” said he, tartly, “but I fail to see why you should hold me capable of the folly of making a third.”

“Nay, nay,” said Sainton, with irritating composure. “I credit thee with wisdom beyond thy years, but if Solomon, who had three thousand wives, could go daft about yet an extra woman, there is small cause why thou, who hast no wife at all, shouldst not be bitten by the craze. I warrant you Prince Jahangir hath a bevy of beauties in his private abode, and this chuck who hangs his head so dolefully may have half a score or more waiting his beck and nod at home, yet they both are keen to fall to with sword and dagger to dispute the possession of the quean we have just quitted. ‘Garden of Heart’s Delight,’ i’ faith! The flower they all seek there is of a kind that stings in the plucking.”

Mowbray, conscious that the dethronement of Nellie Roe in his mind was but momentary, regained his normal good humor.

“You are in a mood for preaching this morning,” he cried. “Now, had your tongue run so smoothly when the Sultana was present, you might have won her favor, as all the women have an eye for you, Roger.”

“A murrain on the barbarous words that trip my speech! I could talk to her Majesty in honest Yorkshire, and I can make some headway in the language of the common folk hereabout, but when it comes to your pretty poesy of Shiraz I am perforce dumb as a Whitby mussel.”

Here, Sher Afghán, rousing himself from a mournful reverie, began to hum a verse of a well-known Persian love song: —

“O love! for you I could die;’Tis death from your presence to fly;O love! will the pain never end?Will our hearts ne’er in unison blend?”

They were crossing the bridge of boats at the moment, and the singer, more occupied with his thoughts than with external events, did not notice that a laden camel, advancing down the center of the swaying roadway, gave the party little enough room to pass on one side.

Walter drew his attention to the fact. The Persian, disdainful of the lower orders as were all of his class, spurred his mettlesome Arab forward, caught the lounging unt by the halter and imperiously swung the beast to one side.

A shriek rang out wildly from behind the camel, whose load of firewood had struck a native woman walking on the side of the bridge. She staggered and fell. The infant she carried was jerked out of her arms into the river.

Walter, who saw what had happened, sprang from his horse, jumped into the water, which was deep enough at that point to drown a man, and caught the little naked child as it rose, struggling and gasping for breath. With a vigorous stroke or two he reached the side of the nearest pontoon. Roger leaned over, seized the collar of his friend’s jacket, and lifted him and the baby back to the firmer footing of the bridge.

The distraught mother flung herself at Mowbray’s feet and wound her arms around his ankles, thereby embarrassing him greatly, as he was soaked from head to foot, and the dense crowd which gathered with extraordinary speed threatened to block the bridge for an hour.

Sher Afghán, who was divided between wonder that a man should take so much trouble to rescue a wretched infant and amazement at Roger’s feat of strength, for Sainton had lifted Walter clean over the rails of the bridge with one hand, now awoke to actualities.

He beat a path through the gaping mob, extricated Mowbray from the extravagant gratitude of the Hindu woman, and quickly led the two Englishmen to the open road beyond the river.

“Did you not know that the Jumna swarms with crocodiles?” he asked, when they were all mounted again, and riding onward at a sharp pace.

“Yes,” said Walter.

“Then, by the tomb of the Prophet, you did that which I would not have done for the sake of any brat in Agra.”

“I gave no thought to it, or perchance I should have hesitated,” was the modest reply.

The incident served one good purpose. It effectually banished Sher Afghán’s love vapors, and he exerted himself so well in behalf of his new acquaintances that they and their packs (Walter having donned dry clothing) were admitted to the palace at the appointed hour, and marshaled past countless officials who would otherwise have barred their path.

The great fortress, in the center of which lay the royal apartments, was a city in itself. Its frowning walls of dark red sandstone, sixty feet in height and defended by many a tower and machicolated battlement, surrounded a low hill. This was crowned by the famous Moti Musjid, or Pearl Mosque, an edifice as celebrated to-day for its perfect architectural proportions and refined taste in embellishment as it was when the Great Mogul, during his daily orisons, occupied the small floor slab nearest to the northwest, and, behind him, six hundred and forty-nine nobles bent in devout homage towards Mecca.

The Hall of Public Audience, a splendid structure, was separated from the mosque by a large garden. Near this rallying ground for all having business with the court stood the smaller but even more impressive Hall of Private Audience, to which there was direct access from the Emperor’s personal apartments. The Zenana, marked by its exquisite Jasmine Tower, containing the Sultana’s boudoir and giving a far-spread view across the Jumna, lay beyond.

These buildings, and many another, constructed almost exclusively of white marble and decorated with scrollwork festoons of flowers wrought wholly in precious stones, shone in the rays of the afternoon sun as the Englishmen passed through the somber depths of the great City Gate and entered the open space surrounding the palace.

That they were the cynosure of many eyes goes without saying. But here, curiosity was restrained. The grave courtesy of an Eastern court was blended with the iron discipline enforced by a powerful ruler like Akbar.

“The King’s order!” said Sher Afghán, and before the King’s order every head bent.

Thus, avoiding the crowd which thronged the path leading to the spacious Hall of Public Audience, where the Emperor in person was then dispensing justice with that even-handed promptitude which won him the respect of all his subjects irrespective of class or creed, Sher Afghán led them to a secluded stairway.

Certain formalities needed fulfilment before the strangers or their goods were allowed to ascend. Guards with drawn swords stood there, and even Sher Afghán himself was compelled to satisfy the high-pitched questions of a gorgeously robed eunuch ere sanction was given to advance.

Mowbray and Sainton, eager to witness the successful end of their twelve hundred miles’ journey, were more concerned, doubtless, to display their silks and spices, their rich store of Arabian and Persian goods, than to note the marvels in sculptured stone with which they were encircled. A mosaic pavement worth a monarch’s ransom was to them only a fine space for opening out bales of cloth cunningly bedizened with gold thread, whilst a balcony of carved marble served excellently as a counter.

At last, when all was ready, a messenger was despatched to the Sultana. Queen Mariam came promptly, and with her were many ladies of the court. They were all veiled, as was the strict rule when the Emperor was near at hand, but among them Sher Afghán, and perhaps Mowbray, looked in vain for the sylph-like form of Nur Mahal.

The scrutiny commenced at once. “Shopping” was as dear to the heart of those Eastern dames as to their sisters of other climes and modern days. The babble of tongues waxed eloquent, and the two traders, comparatively new as they were to the occupation, saw with gratification that the Sultana was as loud in her appreciation of the novelties spread before her eyes as was the youngest lady in her train.

All was going well; Queen Mariam had asked the value of the whole consignment, and Mowbray, with some trepidation, had added half a lakh to the lakh of rupees with which he would be well content – expecting, indeed, to obtain no more than the latter sum at the close of the bargaining – when a sudden hush, a drawing together of the women, a protest suspended in its utterance by the Sultana herself, announced that the elderly man dressed solely in white muslin, who entered the hall from a raised veranda at the further end, could be none other than the Emperor.

His appearance was at once engaging and dignified. Not so tall as his eldest son, he was even broader in build. Possessed of prodigious muscular strength, due to the great breadth of his chest and his long, sinewy arms and hands, Akbar looked a ruler of men both in physical and intellectual properties. His eyes were full and penetrating, with eyebrows that met in a straight line over his well shaped nose. His face, a ruddy brown in color, was firm yet kindly in expression. His forehead was high and open, and in the front folds of his white turban lay a single large ruby in which the sun kindled a fiery glare.

He surveyed the scene in silence for a moment. Then, as his glance dwelt on Sainton, a somewhat prepossessed smile gave place to a look of genuine surprise. He turned and uttered some comment to one behind, and, as he strode forward, they saw that he was accompanied by the Prime Minister, Itimad-ud-Daula.

Every man present, save the armed guards and the two Englishmen, dropped to his knees and bent his forehead to the ground, but Mowbray and Roger, not accustomed to genuflection, contented themselves with bowing deeply.

The Emperor was in no wise offended. He smiled again, showing his teeth plainly.

“They told me you were a big man,” he said to Sainton, “but are you a strong one? Big men are oft like long-backed horses – they bend when the strain comes.”

Luckily, Roger understood him, and, though his Hindustani was rude, be sure it never lacked point.

“I do not think,” he said, “that my back is too long for my height, your Majesty. Be that as it may, they tell me there is no better judge of strength, whether of man or horse, than your Majesty in all India.”

“By the shade of Nizam-ud-din, this giant is no fool!” cried Akbar, whose voice, though loud, was very pleasant. “Were I younger I would test thee, Elephant, but that day is past. Tell me, couldst thou shear two tigers’ heads with a single stroke?”

“Yes, if your Majesty first tied both heads together.”

“Allah, here is a spark after my own heart! What is thy name?”

“Roger Sainton, may it please your Majesty.”

“Raja Sainton! If you be of noble rank why do you come hither in the guise of a trader?”

Sainton was puzzled, as Akbar’s elegant diction rendered the mistake difficult to understand, so Mowbray, in a few well-chosen words, set things right.

The Emperor gave a quick glance at Walter, and seemed instantly to appreciate the relation between the two. But he addressed himself again to Roger: —

“You have traveled far, and are welcome. To-day I am busy, or I would discourse with you further. Be here to-morrow, two hours before sunset, and we shall give each other entertainment. Meanwhile, what can I do for you and your friend?”

Sainton, filled with the sense of camaraderie which makes men of kindred sympathies quickly known to each other, realized that Akbar would not resent a little familiarity.

“Sir,” he said, “if you buy our goods and give us good cheer we shall do that which those in your court ought to do every day, but fail therein most scandalously, I fear.”

“And what is that?”

“We shall pray to God for your health and happiness.”

Akbar grasped him by the shoulder.

“List, all of you,” he shouted. “Here is our Elephant showing his wisdom. By the Prophet’s beard, I regret, for once, that there is peace in our dominions, else you and I, Elephant, should go to the war ere ever you sailed away to your distant land. But we shall find sport, or my wit fails. You, sir,” he went on, speaking to Mowbray, “shall tell us something of the ways of your country when the Elephant and I have wearied ourselves. Meanwhile, the Sultana will buy your wares at your own rates. I judge as much by the cackle of women’s voices I heard as I came hither.”

By way of a joke he gave Sainton’s shoulder a farewell squeeze that would have dislocated many a man’s bones. Roger, pretending he had not felt it, stooped and picked up a small brass jar which he grasped around its narrow neck.

“Let me give your Majesty a reminder of to-morrow’s meeting,” he said.

The Emperor, seeing more in the words than their mere purport, took the jar. Roger had bent the brass cylinder into a double fold.

“Thanks, friend,” he said, quietly. “’Tis well it was not my neck which received that grip, else there would be a new ruler in India. And, by the Koran!” he added under his breath, “I am minded now of another matter.”

He looked around until he caught sight of Sher Afghán, standing somewhat apart from the listening crowd.

“My young friend,” cried he, “I have been discussing you with my trusted Diwán. He agrees with me that you should provide his beautiful daughter with a careful husband. Marry her forthwith! To-night, if you be so minded! And lest anyone should dispute the prize with you take a troop of horse to escort you to Burdwán.”

Bombs were hardly known in India at that period, but the explosion of a live shell in the midst of the company would have created a sensation little more profound than Akbar’s words. Nur Mahal, that fiery beauty, to be wed forthwith to Sher Afghán! What would Prince Jahangir say?

CHAPTER VIII

“The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,For want of fighting had grown rusty.” Butler’s “Hudibras,” Part I, Canto I.

Yet all knew it mattered not a jot what Jahangir said. The Diwán had given his consent, the Emperor his approval, and it was common knowledge that both were acting for the welfare of the state in putting an effectual stop to the infatuation of the heir apparent for a girl with whom a recognized alliance was impolitic if not impossible.

But Queen Mariam, all of a tremble by reason of her fear lest Jahangir’s madness should lead him to excess, ventured to utter a word of protest.

“My Lord,” she said, “this decision hath been taken suddenly.”

“Do you think so?” asked Akbar, pleasantly. His composure disconcerted her. Nevertheless, love for her eldest born and favorite son gave her strength.

“Yes,” she cried. “I would force no maid to wed where her heart is not set. It oft leads to evil.”

“Ah!” he answered, “you are becoming an old woman. Were I one also I might think like you.”

The kindly tone of his words deprived them of their sting. When he clenched an argument in such wise Akbar had a habit of stroking a large wart on the left side of his nose, a slight disfigurement which astrologers assured him was a most propitious sign. Gently rubbing the wart now he turned again towards Sher Afghán.

“Has delight rendered thee dumb?” he growled good humoredly.

“Not so, O King of Kings,” cried the young Persian. “Fearing that my ears betrayed me I was silent. When your Majesty speaks all tongues are stilled. I have but two possessions which I cherish, my sword and my honor. The one has always been and will ever be at your Majesty’s disposal; the other I fly to place at the feet of Nur Mahal.”

By this fearless utterance, Sher Afghán accepted the Emperor’s command and flung defiance to all others. Salaaming deeply, he withdrew. In the hush which had fallen on the assembly they heard him rush down the outer stairs, and, an instant later, the clatter of his Arab’s hoofs as he rode towards the gate showed that the wedding ceremony would not be delayed by any dilatoriness on the part of the bridegroom.

Akbar vanished. The Diwán, who had not taken any overt part in the scene, followed him, and the Sultana, without casting another glance at the brave array of merchandise, withdrew with her retinue.

Mowbray and Sainton were left gazing blankly at each other, but an official, knowing better than they the domestic trouble which was brewing in the royal household, advised them to repack their goods, as, in his opinion, the bazaar projected for the morrow would certainly be abandoned.

“I thought for sure yon sloe-eyed wench would bring us no luck,” muttered Roger when he heard Mowbray bidding their servants load up their mules again. “My mother always advised me to wed a homely wife if I wanted to be happy. Not that she was ill-looking herself, but I have heard her say that my father never had spirit enough to quarrel with anybody.”

“On my word, Roger,” laughed Walter, smothering his own annoyance at the turn taken by events, “you look as glum as Lot’s wife when she lost the use of her feet.”

“Who wouldn’t!” demanded Sainton. “We had the silver as good as in our breeches pockets, when some imp of mischief set the King to scratch his nose and talk about marriage.”

“All is not lost yet. I trust to your wit to make his Majesty realize to-morrow in what fashion he spoiled our market. At the worst, we retain our goods, and still can trade in the bazaar.”

Two journeys through the tortuous streets of the city, joined to the labor of unpacking and packing their bales at the palace, had occupied so much of the short November afternoon that the sun was setting with the rapidity peculiar to the tropics ere they reached the caravansary.

The smoke of many fires clung to the ground, spreading over the streets and open spaces a hazy pall some ten feet in height. Beneath, all was murky and dim; above, the tops of trees and the upper stories of houses were sharply silhouetted against the deep crimson-blue of the sky, whilst the stars were already twinkling in myriads overhead. This coverlet of smoke creeps nightly over every Indian town in the cold weather. It is disagreeable to the eyes and nose if not to the artistic senses, and the haze is ofttimes so dense during the hours before midnight that, in the crowded bazaar, the range of vision becomes lessened and even familiar objects cannot be recognized until they are close at hand.

The phenomenon was familiar enough to the two travelers not to excite their notice on this occasion save in one respect. It was essential that heed should be given to the fondness of native servants for appropriating articles which did not belong to them. Naught could be easier than for a pack animal to be slyly driven into a by-path, whence it would never return, whilst search for it and its valuable burden would be time wasted. So now, as on every other night when they chanced to be belated, Mowbray and Sainton kept a sharp eye on their train, and stood at the gate of the caravansary until each mule and bullock had filed within its portals.

They were engaged in this task when the chant of palki-bearers and the glare of torches lighting up the roadway apprised them that some person of importance was being carried toward Agra from the direction of Delhi and the north. The carriers were singing cheerfully, announcing in rhyme the close of a long march, and setting forth the joys of rice and ghi at the end of the day’s toil.

But the verse stopped suddenly, and the rapid shuffle of naked feet through the dust gave place to the objurgations of the torch-bearers addressed to the muleteers and bullock tenders of the Englishmen’s cortège. Native servants curse each other fluently on the slightest provocation, so a lively exchange of compliments affecting the paternity and ancestry of both parties instantly broke out. In reality, nothing could be done. The mules and bullocks, eager as their drivers to have finished with the day’s work, were crowding into the caravansary, and the palki, or litter, could not pass for a minute or so unless the bearers quitted the beaten track and made a détour behind the mud hovels which faced the rest-house. Glad of a moment’s respite the coolies preferred to halt, and wag their tongues scandalously.

Walter, somewhat amused by the scene, did not interfere. There was only one palki, but the number of retainers and loaded ponies behind showed that the traveler was some one of consequence.

The occupant of the litter, evidently wondering what caused the commotion, drew apart the curtains on the side opposite to that on which Mowbray was standing, Sainton, urging on the rearmost of their train, being at some little distance.

A Pathan torch-bearer approached the palki, and, as luck would have it, Roger came to Mowbray at that moment to tell him that his count tallied with their reckoning.

Something said by the Pathan caused his employer to withdraw the second set of curtains. Hence, the light of the torch illumined the interior of the litter and revealed most clearly the identity of its tenant.

Walter would scarce have believed his eyes had not Roger muttered: —

“’Fore God, ’tis Dom Geronimo!”

“He and no other,” whispered Walter. “I knew there were Jesuits in Agra, but they are well spoken of, and I never dreamed that this wretch was numbered among them.”

“He knows us, too,” growled Sainton. “Why should we not requite him for the ill he would have done us. ‘Return good for evil,’ saith the maxim, and ’twill be a good deed to let some of the bad blood out of him.”

“No, no. It would ruin our cause with Akbar. Though he is our enemy, he is less able to work us harm in this heathen land than in our own country. Let him pass. I vow he takes us for malign spirits, come back to earth to vex him.”

Certainly the aspect of Dom Geronimo’s face as the palki moved on and his carriers resumed their song was that of a man who gazed at a threatening vision. Incredulity blended with fear at first, to be succeeded by a glance of utmost malevolence as his shocked senses resumed their sway. That he recognized the two friends was not to be doubted. Sainton’s gigantic stature alone marked him out from other men, and, at that season of the year, their garb did not differ materially from the clothes they wore when the Jesuit left them to their fate on board the Spanish vessel in the Thames.

He closed the curtains of his palki with an angry gesture, as though the sight of them was displeasing to him. Yet Dom Geronimo would have been a lucky man in that hour had he blotted them from his memory as well.

Nevertheless, his contemptuous action served to hide from him the fact that Roger reached out a long arm and detained a fellow who was hastening in the rear of the Jesuit’s retainers.

“Whence comes thy master?” he said gruffly.

“From Lahore, sahib,” was the stuttering reply, for the man was frightened by the size of his questioner.

“And whither is he bound?”

“To the court of the mighty Akbar, O protector of the poor.”

“Hath he been long in these parts?”

“I know not, huzoor. I am a poor man – ”

“Treat him easily, Roger,” put in Walter. “See now, brother, here is a rupee for thee. How is thy master known?”

“He is called the Fire-Father,” answered the native, reassured by the sight of the money and the relaxation of Roger’s grip. “They say he earned the name from the Emperor himself, because once, when a moullah disputed with him, the black-robed one challenged the moullah to enter with him into a raging fire. The one would carry the Koran and the other a Book by which he sets great store. Then, he said, it would readily be seen whether Mahomet or He whom he calls Christ were the more powerful. But the moullah hung back, and the Emperor laughed, I have been told.”

“Aye,” said Roger in English, “he has faith enough and to spare, I warrant ye. Anyone who believes that Spain can win her way in England will believe owt. And as for fire, God wot, he hath the stomach of a salamander for it. Now, had I been the moullah, I would have bid him go first into the flames, when, an he survived the ordeal, Mahmoud should be scouted as a rank impostor.”

They could obtain little further information from the servant so they bade him hasten after his master, and, to still his tongue, Walter gave him another silver coin.

Though the presence of Dom Geronimo in Agra was an omen of bad fortune, they agreed, in converse over a meal of which they were much in need, that his animosity would be exerted in vain if they maintained the good relations already established with the Emperor. Akbar was renowned for his religious tolerance. The tale told by the native was one of many which revealed this generous trait in a ruler deservedly entitled “the Great.” The Jesuits, coming to India in the wake of the Portuguese, were already well established in Agra, where they were then building a splendid church. They and the Capuchins, composed, for the most part, of learned and truly pious men, not only commanded respect by their discretion and Christian meekness, but won the admiration of the educated classes by their scientific knowledge. It was probable that the religious zeal of a fanatic like Dom Geronimo would be restrained by his wiser brethren. His intemperate language had earned him a typical soubriquet, which stood out in curious contrast to the charity of the doctrines preached by eminent missionaries like Father Joseph d’Acosta, a Portuguese, and Father Henri Busée, a Fleming.