Companions of Paradise (31 page)

January 3, 1842

H
assan and Zulmai had crossed the Logar River the previous day.

By the time Mariana rode into Aminullah Khan's fort, Hassan and his two-man escort had been nearing Kabul, bent low over their horses’ necks, shawls wrapped over their heads and faces.

They had set off at sunrise, leaving Zulmai and the baggage behind, and ridden swiftly along the Logar's northward course, past the leafless fruit trees that crowded the river's bank, their branches shaking in the wind.

At noon, seven hours later, the elder of Hassan's guards had held up a hand.

“Our horses cannot go any longer without resting,” he said respectfully, “but your Akhal Tekke will take you all the way to the city, if you choose to continue without us.”

“I will go on alone. May you live,” Hassan added politely by way of farewell. “May you not be tired!”

Ghyr Khush's ears twitched when he spoke to her, then she trotted on.

By midafternoon Hassan had reached the great caravanserai and animal market west of Kabul. A chaikhana stood by the gate, its samovar bubbling. He dismounted stiffly, and tethered his mare.

A little while later, the elderly tea shop proprietor put a second pot of tea in front of him, and pointed along the serai's high brick wall. “The best place to camp is on this side,” he offered. “It is here that you should wait for your friend's arrival.”

“I will take your advice,” Hassan replied, “but first I have work to do. Can you tell me the whereabouts of the British fort?”

The old man regarded him seriously. “If I were you,” he said, “I would avoid that accursed place. You, who are from India, should give it a wide berth.”

Hassan thanked him, remounted his tired mare, and rode away through the tall caravanserai gate.

He found the road leading to the cantonment choked with heavily armed men and boys, who stared at him as he passed. As he approached the walled fort, a foul smell filled the air.

The main entrance was tightly closed. No sentries stood outside. He dismounted and hammered on the great doors, but there was no response. After riding all the way around the cantonment's outer wall, looking in vain for an open entrance, he stationed himself at a discreet distance from a promising-looking secondary gate. When at last it opened to let out a man leading a donkey, Hassan spoke urgently to his mare. Ghyr Khush sprang at once to a gallop, but they arrived too late.

Before the doors closed firmly in front of him, Hassan had looked briefly inside to see a dozen men staring out at him, raw fear on their faces.

“Shut the gate, shut the gate!” they had cried, as if their lives depended on it.

His luck was no better on the second day.

“Did you find what you were seeking?” the old tea seller asked, when Hassan returned to the caravanserai.

“Not yet, father,” he replied politely, “but I will continue to try. Perhaps,” he added, “you can give me information about someone who lives in the city.”

MARIANA AWOKE to daylight, and the sound of household bustle outside her room.

Fearing she had overslept, she put her feet over the side of her bed, put on her slippers, draped herself in her shawls, and went outside.

Sunlight fell into the small courtyard in front of her, brightening the coats of the tethered animals and glinting in the icy ground. A servant woman in leather boots climbed the stairs, a water vessel on her head. Rosy-cheeked children darted through a doorway.

Something drew Mariana's glance upward. The fierce old woman from the previous night stood at an upstairs window, studying her.

She caught Mariana's eye, and disappeared inside.

Perhaps she was the matriarch of the family, who held the power to decide who should live and who should die. If so, what was she thinking?

A moment later, a young girl arrived and conducted Mariana to the upstairs room. There, luxuriating in the warmth from the brazier and closely observed by a pushing crowd of children, she drank hot green tea and ate sweet porridge with ground meat in it, and a piece of Afghan bread.

As she finished her food, male voices shouted from the rooftop.

Someone had arrived.

Mariana hurried into her chaderi, then, together with the flock of children, she rushed out into the main courtyard in time to see the heavy outer doors of the fort swing open. A moment later, her uncle rode inside, accompanied by a nervous-looking groom leading a second horse with a sidesaddle on its back.

They were alone. Uncle Adrian dismounted and stood uncertainly, his eyes roving the courtyard.

She dashed across the snow and flung her arms about his neck. “Uncle Adrian,” she cried, “I am so glad you have come! But where is Aunt Claire?” she added, frowning toward the gate. “Where are the servants?”

He held her away from him, and peered through her latticework. “Oh, Mariana, it grieves me to see you in native costume.” His voice trembled. “Tell me, have they hurt you?”

She stared in surprise. “No, not at all. I had a hot bath last night, and a lovely dinner. They have given me my own room. They have promised to send us to India in a day or two.”

He released her shoulders. “You poor little fool.” He sighed.

In spite of the cold, his face was slick with perspiration beneath his top hat. Newly clean herself, she now realized that he gave off an ugly, sweetish smell. His hands were grimy. His cough sounded dry.

“These Afghans will demand money for your release. If we do not pay them an enormous ransom, they will slaughter you like a lamb.”

“Uncle Adrian,” she said carefully, wondering if desperation had affected his judgment, “they have granted us asylum—”

He waved her to silence, and glanced over his shoulder. “Do not make another sound,” he whispered. “I shall try to persuade them to turn you over to me.”

Mariana drew herself up inside her chaderi. “I am
not
a prisoner, Uncle Adrian. I am a
guest.
These are Pashtuns. Have you forgotten the code of Pashtunwali?”

He blinked uncertainly.

“Please
, Uncle Adrian,” she begged, her chin beginning to wobble. “If you do not bring Aunt Claire and the servants, they will all die. It was for
their
sake that I took the chief's stirrup in my hand and begged for his protection. For
their
sake.”

His gaze focused. “And which chief is that?” he asked, his voice sharpening, his eyes boring into hers. “From which of our enemies have you treacherously begged for asylum?”

She dropped her eyes to her snow-caked boots. “This fort belongs to Aminullah Khan,” she whispered.

“But please,
please
listen to me,” she added, now crying in earnest at the sight of his face. “Everything we learned about their code of conduct is true. Why should Aunt Claire or Lady Macnaghten or Lady Sale die because of the stupidity of our generals? Aunt Claire is my mother's only sister. You can go back and do your duty if you wish, but how can you let
her
die?”

His face was set. “It is a matter of honor.”

He nodded to the groom. The man stepped forward, leading the saddled horses. He was going to take her away.

“No, Uncle Adrian,” she sobbed, flinching from his reaching hand. “If you leave now, the asylum will be broken. They will shoot you in the back.”

As she spoke, a door in a nearby building flew open, and Aminullah Khan started toward them. He limped slightly, and his left arm hung at his side, as if he did not use it very much, but from his manner, it was quite clear that he was master of the fort, and everyone in it.

He smiled as he drew near, the planes of his face losing none of their harshness. “Forgive me,” he offered, a hand over his heart, ignoring Mariana who sniffed wetly at her uncle's side. “I have only now heard of your arrival. Please come inside where it is warmer. We will have tea.”

He waved his good hand toward the same building where he had disappeared the previous afternoon. As he did so, other men came from inside, joined him, and offered their own greetings.

Exhausted, filthy, without even a knife, Uncle Adrian stood no chance against the ten heavily armed tribesmen who smiled encouragingly and pointed to the brick building and its open door.

Before he walked away with the men who had cut to pieces both his superior officers, he threw Mariana a single, anguished glance.

“Whatever they ask you, remember to tell them the truth,” she called after him,
“the truth!”

She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her chaderi, hunched her shoulders, and started toward the women's quarters.

Whatever happened now, her uncle would suffer.

Even if he reached India safely, his troubles would be far from over. The Governor-General would never understand why he had abandoned his post at such a critical time. No one would believe that he had become trapped in Aminullah's fort while trying to rescue his niece.

There would be a humiliating investigation, followed by demotion, perhaps even the loss of his pension.

She waited jumpily for two hours in the upstairs room before more shouting came from the rooftop. She rushed downstairs once more.

Uncle Adrian must have eaten something, for he looked less haggard than before, but she had never seen him so miserable. He stood beside Aminullah Khan, looking on wanly as his household servants filed through the gate and into the fort.

Already inside stood a carved palanquin, its twelve bearers crouched around it, muffled in their shawls.

They had come.
Mariana looked eagerly from face to face among the crowd. All the servants were there: Yar Mohammad, standing protectively by Aunt Claire's palanquin, Dittoo, with his hair sticking messily from his turban, old Adil, the Bengali Mug cook with his knives in a leather bag, the cross-eyed silver-polisher and the sweeperess and her daughter. All huddled nervously together, along with a score of others.

“Adrian? Are you there?” Aunt Claire's plaintive voice called from the palanquin. “Where on earth
are
we?”

Mariana frowned, searching the courtyard. “But where are Lady Macnaghten and Lady Sale?” she asked. “Where is Lady Sale's daughter?”

Surely they had been invited. Surely they would not have missed this chance to get out of Afghanistan. Lady Sale's daughter was expecting a child…

He shook his head. “When I saw there was no escape for either of us from this fort, I sent for your aunt and the servants, fearing to leave them alone at the cantonment. But how could I ask the other ladies to come? I had promised Sir William,” he added bleakly, “to look after his wife.”

AN HOUR later, Mariana stood guard outside the door of the bathing chamber, a fresh set of homespun clothes and Aunt Claire's musty gown and underthings bundled together in her arms.

Sounds of splashing came from within.

“Are you there, my dear?” her aunt asked tremulously for the third time. “I do not wish to find myself alone and naked, in a fort full of Afghans.”

“When you are ready,” Mariana said through the door, “I will hand you the clean things Zahida has brought for you.”

Later, sounds of struggle came from inside, accompanied by heavy breathing. Mariana imagined her aunt pulling up the unfamiliar, baggy Afghan trousers and tying the drawstring around her ample middle, then pulling the loose camisole down over her head, followed by the long, matching homespun shirt.

“Come inside, Mariana,” she cried a moment later, through a crack in the door. “Bring my real clothes. I will
not
leave this bathing room without my stays.

“Shut the door!” she ordered when Mariana entered, then stood before her, resplendent in the lamplight, her large breasts wobbling freely beneath the coarsely woven cotton shirt. “Never in my life,” she wailed, “have I been dressed so indecently!”

“You may certainly wear your stays,” Mariana replied cautiously, “but they have not been washed for more than a month. Besides, you are to wear these as well.”

She held up a long, broad white veil and an equally generous shawl. “Both of them cover the chest.”

Her aunt's chins quivered with indignation. “I cannot imagine what your uncle was thinking, to get us into this predicament. As long as I live, I shall never breathe a
word
of this experience.”

Her uncle?
Mariana shook out the veil. “Let me,” she said hastily, “show you how to wear this.”

Two hours later, in the upstairs sitting room, Mariana sighed with relief.

Aunt Claire had liked the dinner.

Mariana had braced herself for an open display of disgust at the spicy dishes that came in abundance from downstairs, with flat ovals of fresh tandoori bread. Instead, she watched fascinated as Aunt Claire, after only token objections at the lack of utensils, put away many cups of tea, several helpings of chicken
pulao
, carrots, yoghurt, and a dish of split peas.

The only thing she refused to do was speak to their hostesses.

“I will
not
converse with these savages,” she decreed, waving dismissive fingers in the direction of the fierce old lady who watched her with hooded eyes from the other side of the table. “I will reluctantly wear their clothes and eat their food, but you must not expect me to take any notice of them.”