Companions of Paradise (12 page)

The Qur'anic verse carved into the little medallion possessed a beauty that tugged at Mariana, as did Haji Khan's durood.

The fulfillment of the soul's longing.
Did verses like these have the power to inspire dreams or answer the questions of the soul? Could they touch a heart with poetic alchemy, and change it forever?

She did not know, but as she sat in Babur Shah's garden among her own people, she made up her mind to try reciting the durood, but with one small change to protect her Christianity.

THE SUN was low in the sky when Sir William's guests and their armed guard assembled for the return journey.

Lady Macnaghten put a booted foot onto her groom's proffered knee, and climbed awkwardly into her sidesaddle. “What a lovely day,” she fluted as she adjusted her riding veil. “I expect to be happily exhausted tomorrow.”

“It is a good thing,” observed her husband, “that Kabul is such a quiet station. In these times of peace we may tire ourselves with abandon.”

“What a pity Sir Alexander was unable to join us,” she said. “He would so much have enjoyed the view.”

“Come along, Mariana,” her uncle called, as the rest of the party descended the hill toward the garden's elegant gateway. “Yar Mohammad has brought your mare.”

“Be careful crossing the bridge,” he warned a little later. “People are coming the other way. And remember not to look at them.”

A tall, heavily bearded rider approached from the opposite bank, followed by three dogs and six or seven horsemen. She glanced at the tall rider as he came near, and drew in her breath. On his leather-clad wrist, hooded and silent, rode a pure white hawk.

She lowered her gaze, feeling the man's eyes upon her.

Several rabbits and a score of large, red-legged partridges hung from the horses’ saddles. From the corner of her eye she saw the white hawk open its wings partway, and hunch its shoulders. There was no hint of gray anywhere on its wings or body. Its leather hood had been embroidered with silver thread.

“That is a
tujhun,”
her uncle said quietly. “A Siberian goshawk. They are great hunters and very rare.”

“Why did that man look so familiar?” Mariana asked, after the hunting party had clattered past them on the bridge, talking among themselves, their long-haired hounds trotting alongside them.

“That, my dear,” her uncle said, glancing over his shoulder at the departing horsemen, “was Abdullah Khan himself, the Achakzai chief who knocked down those tents at the race meeting. Do you remember him throwing down his tent peg as if he were challenging Shah Shuja to a duel? I was told he had returned to the Pishin valley after that, but my information was clearly wrong.

“I do not like seeing him here in Kabul,” he added. “I do not like the derisive look I saw on his face as he passed us, or the way his men talked among themselves and pointed in our direction.”

He frowned. “All this reminds me that I must discover the whereabouts of that doddering old Aminullah Khan. For all I know, he is here as well.”

The day was fading rapidly. The little shrine beside the river was now alive with people, their lanterns casting shadows as they moved about among the trees. Mariana imagined the wicked old tribesman lurking in the dark with his men, like the villain in a fairy tale.

“We must catch up with the others,” her uncle said sharply. “I do not like to be out at dusk without an escort.

“It is rumored,” he murmured as they neared the Residence compound, “that Abdullah Khan killed his elder brother by burying him in the ground, tying a rope to his neck, and then riding circles around him until his head was torn from his shoulders. That story may or may not be true, but it illustrates the man's reputation.”

That night, Mariana lay whispering in the dark, as Munshi Sahib's beads clicked between her fingers.

It was acceptable, he had told her, to recite Haji Khan's durood in English. He had not, however, authorized the small alteration she had made.

“Shower thy blessings,” she whispered, hoping for a glimpse through the blind man's doorway, “upon
their
leader and master Muhammad”

September 26, 1841

Y
ou have
cut
the annual payment to the Eastern Ghilzai chiefs by
half?”
Shah Shuja dropped his bunch of grapes and regarded Sir William with dignified horror. “You have done this without so much as asking my advice?”

Behind him, elegant and self-possessed, his double row of ministers murmured among one another, turbaned heads together, their eyes upon the two black-clad Englishmen in front of him.

“Sire,” the Envoy replied, “we had no option. Our government in Calcutta has been insisting for months that we cut our—”

“Ah, Macnaghten, you took no time to think.” The Shah pushed the fruit bowl away from him and turned a tired eye upon his guests.

Of the other officers, both civil and military, who stood behind Burnes and Macnaghten, only three spoke Farsi. Of those, only Mariana's uncle and his assistant watched Shah Shuja's reaction with any interest.

When Macnaghten threw them a fiercely defensive glance, Charles Mott shuffled his feet. Adrian Lamb did not drop his gaze.

“Did you consider your agreement with the Ghilzais before you cut their payment?” the Shah went on in his high, unpleasant voice. “Did you weigh the loss of your honor in breaking your promise?”

“Honor?” Macnaghten gave a lighthearted shrug. “I hardly think
that
matters in this country, Sire, where no one—”

“Honor matters very much in this country, Macnaghten. I have warned you before of the danger of taking gold from some chiefs while giving it to others. Even if you have not done exactly that,” the Shah added, “the appearance of it has created enemies for yourselves and for me. Now, you have compounded your mistake.”

Macnaghten smiled broadly, his hands open in front of him. “But Sire,” he argued, “all we have done is make things fairer. The other chiefs still must pay, but the Ghilzais are getting
less.
Is that not a good thing?

“These people are such children,” he muttered to Burnes beneath his breath, his smile still in place.

“You have returned me to my throne, Macnaghten.” Shah Shuja sighed. “But you have snatched the sovereignty of my country from my hands. Believing that your big guns will keep you safe, you interfere with us, and force your British ways upon us. In your pride, you have turned all the chiefs against me.”

Behind him, his ministers nodded their agreement.

Alexander Burnes stiffened in his chair. “There is no need, Sire, to speak to us in this manner. We have harmed no one. Your enemies are free and unblinded. Why—”

“Have you not understood the saying that ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’?” The corners of the Shah's mouth turned down. “In taxing them severely, you have injured chiefs to the north and south of Kabul. In breaking your promise to them, you have injured the Eastern Ghilzai chiefs. And do not forget that Akbar Khan, son of Dost Mohammad, who has sworn to regain his father's throne, waits with his men at Bamian, to the west. All will now unite against you. Whether you accept it or not, you are now encircled by your enemies.”

“Really, Sire, that is the most—”

The Shah held up a silencing hand. “Once they have identified a common foe, our people form alliances against him, but not before each separate faction has proved itself with exploits against that foe, for Afghans do not rally under one leader, but under a confederation of leaders. What you regard as a few small uprisings may well be those exploits, which will lead to greater and greater attacks by larger and larger numbers of men.

“Your British officers have been openly insulted in the bazaar when they have tried to order tools and weapons from our artisans. Two of them have been stabbed in the marketplaces of Kabul. Several of your Indian soldiers have been killed when they strayed from your cantonment. Do you think these incidents are unrelated?”

Macnaghten smiled again. “But Sire, if we have so many enemies, then why do people flock to join in our horse races and our entertainments? Why do they smile and joke with us as if we were brothers? Why do they offer us gifts and friendship?”

“Yes,” Burnes joined in, “and why do they call me ‘Eskandar’ so happily? Why do they use my Christian name?”

Shah Shuja leaned back against his silken bolster. “That is no Christian name. Eskandar, or Alexander, is a very ancient name indeed. But let me tell you something else: it is not the habit of my people to reveal their feelings. They will smile at you until the very moment when you feel the bite of their knives.

“Mark my words, Macnaghten,” he added, “there will be reprisals against you for this cutting of payments to the Ghilzais.”

Macnaghten bowed. “As you say, Sire. And now, with your permission, I must return to my duties.”

The Shah shook his head. “Ah, Macnaghten,” he said wearily, “how little you understand my Afghanistan.”

THAT SAME afternoon, in the simpler atmosphere of Qamar Haveli, Safiya Sultana leaned back against a cotton-encased bolster and chewed meditatively on a slice of melon.

Her life boasted many pleasures. For the moment at least, everyone in the house was in good health. Hassan, now fully recovered and preparing to leave for Peshawar, rode daily with Saboor. Their excursions to the countryside, either sedately on horse and pony, or galloping full-tilt from village to village on Hassan's beautiful new mare, gave the child real joy. Safiya never tired of watching Saboor charge across the room, his clothes flying, and throw his arms about his father whenever Hassan appeared in the sitting room doorway.

They made a good pair, father and son, experienced courtier and child mystic.

Of course they were not far apart in understanding. Like all the men in the Waliullah household, Hassan had been a member of his father's brotherhood since he was eighteen. He had offered the same prayers and performed the same daily recitations as everyone else, and had gained much from both. Safiya had watched proudly as he became a man of honor, respected in the walled city, and trusted by Maharajah Ranjit Singh.

She had always believed that Hassan's gifts of charm and persuasiveness would serve him well in his life.

It was only his self-consciousness and his perfectionism that worried her.

Of course Hassan had never shown any interest in becoming a spiritual leader. He had none of his son's mysterious prescience, or his enthusiasm for sitting in the courtyard for hours at a time with Waliullah and his guests.

Those traits could belong only to the person who would be the next Shaikh of the Karakoyia brotherhood.

Dear little Saboor. May his bright energy last a hundred years.

Although he was only four, he already displayed a keen desire to learn. Every morning, in the large sitting room, he bounced in his place on the sheeted floor, ready with a hundred questions, when Safiya regaled her family ladies and their children with instructive stories. He spent his afternoons in the courtyard with his grandfather, learning to recite from the Qur'an, his round eyes growing wiser day by day.

Other members of the household were also in good condition. Safiya's young cousin had been delivered of a strong baby girl, whose cries now echoed from room to room in the upstairs ladies’ quarters. Waliullah's elderly gap-toothed sister-in-law, who had collapsed suddenly from the heat one summer afternoon, had since recovered, and was back to gossiping as much as ever.

The harvest of Kandahari pomegranates promised to be good, and the young guava trees had survived the summer rains.

Safiya had much to be thankful for.

A jumping, shouting game outside the sitting room had become too noisy. “Go downstairs this instant,” she snapped at Saboor and half a dozen of his grinning cousins.

When silence fell in the verandah, she thought the children had all gone away, but when Safiya glanced idly through the doorway, she saw that Saboor was still there, watching her silently, half-hidden by the door curtains.

She pointed to the tray of fruit in front of her. “Come, child,” she said, patting the floor beside her when he hesitated. “I will cut you a slice of melon.”

“What is wrong?” she asked, when he sat down and leaned silently against her. “You were playing so happily a moment ago.”

The child gazed into her face for a moment, then got to his knees, pushed a few loose strands of iron-gray hair aside, and cupped a hand over her ear.

“Please, Bhaji,” he whispered wetly, his breath tickling her ear.
“Please
make Abba go to where An-nah is, and bring her home.”

She laid a plump arm about his shoulders. So that was it. The boy still missed the English girl. And why should he not? Mariam had become mother to him after his own poor little mother died. She had protected and loved him for two full years.

“I will do what I can, my darling,” she rumbled, knowing well how little influence she had over Hassan. “I will do what I can.”

A question struck her as the little boy clattered down the stairs to rejoin his game. Why was he missing Mariam now, after so many months? He had been upset, of course, after she left in January, but in the long time that followed, he had seemed happily reconciled to her absence.

What could have happened to make him long for her now?