Holder of the World - Bharati Mukherjee [103]
“I am with child.”
The translator did not bother to render her words. Instead, he said, “His Imperial Highness says we are neither prisoners nor playthings. We are all servants of Allah, fulfilling His commands.”
She heard footfalls behind her, turned, and saw Bhagmati being led by two attendants, pushed to the edge of the throne, then roughly bent, as Hannah had been, in the ritual courtesy.
“It will not go so easily for the idolater,” said the translator. “The troops will do with her as they wish.”
“We are here on a mission, then we shall leave. If you detain us, or dishonor us, we shall die.”
The Emperor spoke. Bhagmati translated. “His Imperial Majesty says we all must die. Allah is merciful.”
He gestured for Bhagmati to come closer and spoke to her in a low voice, then gestured her back. She said to Hannah, translating: “His Majesty has heard that I hear and speak for you. So His Majesty will not cut out my tongue or cut off your ears.”
The Emperor and the translator chuckled.
“His Majesty has heard you corrected the rough manners of Commander Morad Farah.”
“Morad Farah … very … expensive … man,” said the Emperor, in clear English.
“And who hears for you in Devgad Palace?” asked Hannah. “Why must you destroy the Raja?”
The Emperor answered only obliquely, and then again through his translator. Statements to him were always posed as questions, for a statement in his presence implied arrogance. Earnest questions were never asked, for they implied uncertainty.
“A skillful ruler trusts no friend, no family member. Trust only the hunting tiger or the vengeful enemy. The survivor is he who distrusts his own shadow. He destroys himself who does not submit.”
She hated the Emperor for his self-righteous terrors that forced him to see her not as a person on a mission but as a pawn in his endless game of shatranj. To him, she was just another case of brandy, or a cannon, that an ambitious factor like Cephus Prynne might barter for a land grant or new concession. Her only value to him was her bibi power to lure the Raja, as Ravanna had lured Sita, outside the white circle of his hill-fort’s safety.
“Look around you!” Hannah shouted. “There is no golden world. It’s a dream, all a dream!”
The Emperor nodded his head at the eunuch to indicate the audience was over. The eunuch escorted Hannah and Bhagmati into a tent of their own, luxurious with silk canopies, hangings and floor spreads, in the haram section of the war camp. Then he settled down to sleep outside.
ALL THE NEXT DAY, defying the rules of modesty that decreed the veil and head covering, Hannah roamed the tent city of the haram, accepting an old woman’s offer of a tour of the grounds. There would be a city, and a fort, and several mosques, and perhaps even a burial vault, but before all of that, there would be a glorious battle. The Mughal’s vast army was prepared for the kill.
All day, contingents of spear throwers and lance bearers marched across the battlefield. Cavalrymen with their shields out, lances low, pounding forward on armored horses, staged mock assaults. Engineers directed the digging of trenches and burying of mines all around the revetted hill. Horses in teams of two and three pulled gun carriages into place behind newly erected battlements. Slaves packed powder horns and counted primers. Metal grinders sharpened the blades of swords, scimitars and saddle axes. Servants polished the steel of arm guards, breastplates and helmets. Smithies hammered smooth the skirmish-dented shields.
Oh, the murderers’ vanity!
Hannah, knowing the condition of the Raja’s armaments, wanted to call off his mission of suicide, wanted only a chance to speak. The trajectories of hate and love would intersect on this field. And she, the would-be peacemaker, had made herself Aurangzeb’s bait, had allowed herself to be staked like a goat to lure the tiger from his lair.
That night the Emperor sent again for Hannah and her servant. He sat, as he had the night before, under the gold mobile of the world grasped tight in his rigid