My Lady of the Bog (19 page)

“The Queen. Of Indore.”

“In return for . . . ?”

“. . . our protection.”

“I see,” Ghazil said, with somewhat less glee.

“Ghazil,” Sikandar said, “I win a great victory and you act like it’s some mean defeat. May I remind you that I conquered Indore in a morning, without the loss of a single man? Its Queen has pledged us her allegiance and has paid us great tribute. The jewels of her crown scraped the dust of my feet. Why, in the name of the Ever-Merciful, are you scowling?”

“Because not everyone will see it this way.”

“And what other way is there to see it, pray?”

Ghazil sighed. “You unilaterally abrogated a dozen treaties and, without consultation, formed an alliance with an enemy queen. If viewed in this way, your actions could almost be regarded as . . . treason.”

“Treason?
” Sikandar asked, disbelieving.

“And another thing,” Ghazil went on. “Your participation in certain native rites does not go unnoticed. Some claim you are an apostate.”

“Why? Because I worship with my men?”

“Because you pray with them to others than the One.”

“And what do
you
believe?”

Me?” Ghazil laughed. “I have no opinion,
theologically
speaking. But you should know that, in doing so, you give comfort to your enemies.”

“I am more concerned with the comfort I give my men.” Sikandar shook his head, and plucking from a passing horse a mango, ripped back its skin when Ghazil reached out and seized it, rudely.

“Listen well, Sikandarji. If you do not first inspect with greater care the morsel on your tongue—or gaze more deeply into the nature of the sediment that seems to cloud your drinking water—these very details, beneath your dignity to observe could, in the blink of an eye, remove you from this world, and all your grand designs along with it. Our
enemy
gave this mango to you.”

“Our
former
enemy. Present
ally.”
Sikandar snatched the mango back and bit into it. Oh, it was delicious.

“Now,” Ghazil continued, “if we were to analyze the Queen Mayura’s actions—all sentiment aside, from a purely strategic point of view—how might we describe them?”

Sikandar, I could tell, did not like the direction in which the conversation was heading. Nor did I. Though I, for one, had no say in the matter. I was beginning to grasp my unique position: I was Sikandar’s
mute
and
inactive
Siamese twin. I shared his mind and body, his memory, senses and his thoughts. I could taste the fruit, revel in his jubilation, and feel his desire, fear and pain, but I could not speak, act, or intercede.

Sikandar sighed. “
Bheda
.”

“Bheda
. Yes. Divide and conquer. Pick one of the princes and align with him. Let the two brothers fight it out between themselves and, when both have exhausted their forces, walk in.”

“Except it didn’t happen that way! I doubt at first she even knew who I was!”

“Sikandar ibn Musa Khilji al-Hind! Do not play the fool with me. Do you really think that Queen Mayura doesn’t know the makeup of your house? Do you think her astrologers didn’t cast your fortune the day you were born and haven’t been poring over it since, probing it for weaknesses?”

And though this observation was meant to give Sikandar pause, it gave instead a lovely consolation. Sikandar imagined Mayura saying his name and studying his character long before they’d ever met, and he found in this a curious comfort.

“Next.”

“
Upeksh
ā
. And s
ā
man
.”

“Ah. ‘Overlooking’ and ‘conciliation.’ You attack her country, but she doesn’t seem to notice. A minor infraction not worthy of mention. And with
s
ā
man
, she charms the beast in you with words of praise and sweet appeasement, the way a snake charmer charms his deadly slave. Did she claim your appearance was divine intervention? You’re blushing. Ah, I see she did. Next!”

“
D
ā
n
ā
.”

“Gift giving. Good. And not just any gift, but the mother of diamonds. Of course, if our kingdom falls to hers, she will get it back. And more. So while it’s a gift to you, to her, it’s more . . . an investment. Fifth?”

Sikandar didn’t answer. Even I found Ghazil’s belittling tone difficult to bear.

“I am waiting.”

“
M
ā
y
ā
.”

“Deception. And how did Mayura utilize m
ā
y
ā
?”

Sikandar sighed. “She sent three guides. We must assume they are spies.”

“Of course, they are. Did she send an ambassador, too, with his staff?”

We looked at Ghazil. “She is sending one. Yes.”

“Of course, she is. And they will all be spies, too. Perhaps the entire encounter was designed from the outset to insert her agents into our court. Did this occur to you?”

“ ‘Abd al-Wali was leading us.”

“
J
ī
. ‘Abd al-Wali. Whose mother is a Rajput princess.”

Sikandar was outraged. “Are you accusing ‘Abd al-Wali . . . ?”

“I am stating his lineage. And finally . . .”

“
Indraj
ā
la
.”

“Ah.
Indra’s net
. Those eyes, are they really that beguiling? Or is it her lips? Whatever it is, it must be absolutely mesmerizing to make you walk into her lair . . .”

“I walked out of it, too,” Sikandar protested, “with the biggest gem in Hindustan . . .”

“That, you did,” Ghazil conceded. He held the diamond up. “It
is
magnificent, I will admit. And bound to bring you untold grief.”

Once again, we were mystified. “Why grief? It will bring us peace and great prosperity. After all, I have struck an alliance.”

“Yes. With our enemy and the enemy of our allies, and by so doing have thrown the balance of power into chaos! What will our allies do, now
their
enemy has become
our
friend?

“And let me remind you of something else. Your brother publicly vowed to conquer Indore. He will not be pleased with what you’ve done. For having allied with
her
, you must now oppose
him
. What’s that?” Ghazil asked, suddenly, pointing to our arm.

“Nothing. A
rakhi
.”

“That
she
gave you?” A marvelous smile broke forth on Ghazil’s lips.
“Now
, I see. You are
smitten
. This is not a political alliance. This is . . . a
seduction!
And by one long practiced in the art.”

“She is hardly a temptress. She’s the mother of a young boy. Both her life and that of the child are in danger.”

“And do you know why? It is said she is unearthly. That is why they wish to dethrone her.”

“
Unearthly
?” we both asked.

“Some say she is an
apsaras
, a nymph; others, a
yakshi
¹
,
r
ā
kshasi
²
or
vetali
³
—but all agree, she is not of this world.”

“She is a widow,” Sikandar protested, “a royal widow with a small child.”

“If so, she is a self-made one. For R
ā
ja Mul did not die in battle, as you may suppose. It is said he ran, and she was so shamed and enraged by his cowardice that she picked up a saber and slew him herself. They also whisper she is corrupt and enjoys revels with
aghori-tantrikas
⁴
in cremation grounds.”

“Pish,”
Sikandar said. “Gossip. I’m sure they tell similar tales about us.” Anyway, whether Mayura was a demoness, a murderess or a libertine was not the issue: “I have given my word. Now I must keep it.”

“Why?”

“Because at the basis of all, there must be good faith, Ghazil. There
must
. If the word of a prince means nothing, then nothing else has any meaning—neither contracts nor vows.”

“Do you recall that dispute you had me settle in Dhun between that tailor and that merchant? Each month, they would agree on a fair price for the tailor’s labor; when the work was done, the merchant would pay.

“One month the tailor’s payment was short. He inquired why. The merchant said, ‘Well, yes, you did sew that garment for me, but the lady who ordered it changed her mind.’

“The tailor replied, ‘Exalted sir, this was not our understanding. Our agreement was that I would sew this cloth and you would pay me two rupees. The agreement was between you and me, not myself and the lady. I am sincerely sorry if you lost on your transaction, but whether you gain or whether you lose does not absolve your debt to me. For twenty years, I have not shared in your profits; why should I now begin to share in your loss?’ ”

Ghazil looked interested despite himself. “And what did the trader say?”

“What
could
he say? He was a greedy fool. I ordered him to pay the tailor the two rupees, plus two hundred more, and a hundred to the court for wasting everyone’s time.

“But that’s not the end. The very next month, the merchant went back to the tailor with new fabric. The tailor examined it, then pushed it away, saying, ‘Cannot you see this fabric is torn?’ ”

“ ‘Torn? Are you blind? It has just come from the weaver!’ ”

“ ‘The fabric I speak of is your word. Now that you have broken it, no amount of mending can repair it. For if your word meant nothing to you last month, why should it mean something tomorrow?’

“And so ended a twenty-year partnership—one highly beneficial to all.”

“You are saying . . . ?”

“. . . that the fabric won’t be rent by me. I gave this queen my word of honor. I swore it on the Highest Power. How can I betray her?”

“Will you betray your Sultan, then? And your clan?”

“Ghazil,” Sikandar pleaded, “I have sworn an oath! Before the gods!”

“The gods be damned!” Ghazil declared. “It’s not the gods you have to worry about. It’s Jafir. Do you know what he will do if he thinks you’re a threat? He will impale you on a stake in the middle of his courtyard. There you will writhe and squirm for a week until death mercifully overtakes you. Is that what you want? A stake up your ass? My God,” Ghazil thundered. “You’ve forgotten the very first lesson I taught you.”

“Hardly; it was
matsa ny
ā
ya:
the Law of the Fish: ‘Big fish swallow little.’ The problem, Ghazil, is that I am not a
fish
. I am a
prince
. And I intend to act like one.”

“Why?” Ghazil called after him. “So that you may congratulate yourself on your righteousness?”

Sikandar paused and said over his shoulder, “For no other reason than I feel wretched when I don’t.”

Sikandar (and I) made our way to the river. There, in the tepid pools, I glimpsed our reflection. We were wearing a red floral
kurta
with matching turban, and lovely pearl-and-ruby studs.

I tried to make sense of my condition, though even then, I could feel the heat of the sun-baked boulder and hear the cacophony of desert birds bedding down for the night.

What
was
this? Was it a book? A dream? A vision? It was filled with so much love and squalor, gems and death, poetry and cruelty—and parallels so unique to my life—I could only believe it was my own. Perhaps some primordial part of me yearned to experience the fullness of life, to hold real gold and priceless jewels, or maybe some ancient eye inside me needed to see red blood spill, pooling in the ochre dust, and the white of defleshed bone.

Our tent stunk to high heaven. The odors of horse and human manure competed with those of smoke and curry. There was no furniture to speak of, nothing but rugs and a folding table, no semblance even of privacy and quiet. Someone was singing in a nearby tent and a servant was snoring loudly in the corner.

The tent flap opened and ‘Abd al-Wali entered, his arms around two gorgeous
houris
. Where he found them I can’t imagine, though from the way they were dressed (or undressed, really) and the wanton boldness of their gazes, they were clearly not your village virgins. “Hey, Kando!”

I hoped Sikandar chose the one on the left—a delicious, sloe-eyed slut in an embroidered vest and harem pants. For a moment, she seemed surprised to see him. Then she turned and pranced, daring us to follow, her anklets tinkling and her heavy breasts exuding a carnality that left me weak in the knees.

Thus I was dismayed to feel her presence creating no heat within my brother. “Oh, Great One,” he said to ‘Abd al-Wali, “you will have to be twice the man tonight.”

‘Abd al-Wali frowned. “Kando, come. Surely the King of Rajasthan deserves a little love.”

Sikandar laughed, unhappily. “Be careful what you call me, brother. ‘Many a tongue has cut many a throat.’ ”

“Kando,” ‘Abd al-Wali pleaded. “Look at her!”

But Sikandar wasn’t interested. He was thinking of the Queen of Indore and remembering the heavenly realm of her eyes, except the Queen was thirty miles away. Instead, Sikandar shook his slave awake and asked him for a drink of water. The man returned with a sweating
kalash
. Christ, but it was poisonous: hot and reeking of saddle leather.

Then the slave unrolled a Persian rug. This was our bed. Was I missing something? The man was a prince. He owned a diamond the size of the Ritz, and this is where we were sleeping tonight? On a rug, on the sand, in a room with a fool and no furniture—a rug that was crawling with fleas and vermin?

Occasionally, the courtesans flickered in his mind as one of them giggled or moaned in a nearby tent, sounds soon lost in his longing for the Queen.

He replayed their encounter. Ghazil was right. If viewed in one light, the Queen’s overtures could be seen as an attempt to undermine their kingdom, a covert campaign of political war. But what a harsh and wretched light to view things in! In its glare, every goddess was a demon. No, Sikandar did not believe this was her motive. He had felt the tension, seen her fear and grief. It was not manufactured.

As for Ghazil’s conviction that he’d been seduced, that, too, was nonsense. Sikandar did not deny that Mayura was lovely, though when he recalled her, it wasn’t her loveliness he remembered but her
fire
. He kept seeing the way she spoke of her enemies, her mouth spitting poison, her eyes hot, burning stars.