Standard Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: This was my submission to the 2015 Age of Edward contest. Imagine my excitement when Rochelle Allison picked it for second place on her list (judges' awards). There are 24 other really good stories over at the contest page, in case you haven't read them yet.
If NewTwilightFan hadn't pushed me, there's no way I would have written this. If she hadn't given me loads of suggestions and highlighted all the words I'm so fond of over-using, this would still be a 5000 word, half-baked, almost-story. She even made a beautiful banner for it. Thank you for everything, Maggie!
Oh, and I beta'd her story 'Tracks' for the contest. If you haven't read it, you're missing out.
.._..
20th March 1582
Yesterday, I was reminded that I have abilities beyond my learning of scripture, and an identity beyond that which the Society of Jesus has conferred upon me. A merchant is leading this caravan, with some thirty carts of goods and a large entourage of servants and guards. This Yakub Siyah—I find it easier to remember his name in the European rendering, Jacob. I cured one of his servants of snakebite, and find myself now held in great esteem as a healer. This merchant Jacob offered me a bag of gold coins, and seemed impressed by my refusal of the wealth. It brought me much merriment to imagine myself as a doctor here, dressed in their draped cotton loincloths and outlandish turbans, perhaps peddling ointments and cures under a mango tree. It is well that no one will ever read this journal; for they would surely believe me a madman if they did.
In the next few days, we shall reach Agra, and thence Fatehpur, the Emperor's new capital city. I will be glad to be stationary for a while after this arduous journey. It is not only the physical strain of travelling over such a distance that I find to be so tiring. It has been far more strenuous to reconcile the barrage of stimuli that have assaulted my mind and senses since we left Goa two months ago.
Though I have interacted with the local population frequently in the two years since I first landed here, I must confess to still finding everything about the natives strange and fascinating—their obsession with colour; their numerous customs; their enthusiastic and childlike celebration of their pagan festivals. Of course, I could barely contain my own enthusiasm when I first saw a Hindu temple, the tall, grey stone steeple several feet high, covered entirely with such a profusion of intricate statuary and carvings, that must surely rival anything created in Europe. The memory of their prayers at dusk is still fresh in my mind—the loud chanting, the clashing of the cymbals and beating of drums, the way the priest worshipped the idol by the light of a stepped oil brazier. We were not allowed inside, but even from a distance, the energy of their fervent prayers was palpable.
Not all my experiences have been so blissful and uplifting, of course. Will I ever forget the mortification I suffered when, desirous of watching the sunrise over the sea, I blithely walked onto the beach at Goa, only to be presented with the sight of a neat row of bare buttocks? Never again have I dared venture forth if there is the least chance of a re-enactment of that scene of communal toilet!
Having immersed myself in the study of these people and their culture for two years, I honestly believed I had achieved a level of familiarity that had inured me to the place—but I was so wrong. Journeying from Portuguese Goa in the Kingdom of Bijapur, to Mughal Agra, I feel as though I have entered an entirely new, unthought-of universe.
From the rather rocky and harsh landscape of the coastal south, we have lately entered upon a pleasing, fertile flatland, which seems to grow more prosperous and populated the further we travel northwards. To my great discomfort, however, there is yet no end to the perpetual blanket of dust that seems to follow us everywhere in this land.
Still, ever since we have left behind the Southern kingdoms and entered Mughal dominions, there is at least a marked improvement in the quality of the main roads. There seems to be greater patrolling along the route, and we have for the last several nights been able to repose in comfort at sarais, the regularly spaced wayside inns. In these rest houses, we have met other caravans of traders and travellers, and I own I am awed by the variety and volume of trade and traders that pass through these lands.
These last few weeks have also made me question the efficacy of learning only Persian and Hindavi. I know for a fact that if I was to be stranded here alone for any reason, my polished, formal Persian would not get me far. I must speak with Father Monserrate at Fatehpur, about learning the local dialects. Proselytisation will be much easier if we speak the language of the natives.
Our mission... our mission has been so important to me for so many years, but my vision is no longer as clear as I had been wont to believe it. This diary contains my innermost thoughts, and yet I am reluctant to write what has been brewing inside my heart and mind these past few months. Suffice it to say that the more I interact with the people of these lands, the more confused I get.
Whatever the state of my belief, I cannot deny my excitement to visit the new Imperial capital. Father Monserrate, when he was invited to take part in Emperor Akbar's religious debates with the Qazis and Brahmins, was ecstatic. His letters continue to be hopeful, and quite appreciative of this Mughal's interest in Christianity. It seems the Emperor has built a special hall for these debates, and calls it the 'Ibadat' hall. It strikes me as a strange name—the word's connotation of 'submissive devotion and worship' hardly matches with its questing purpose. However, it is not mine to unravel the mysteries of this ruler's mind. It is difficult enough to understand my own thoughts these days.
.._..
13 April 1582, Fatehpur
Daybreak was always a spectacular sight in its own right, for what could be more magical than the daily affirmation of the victory of light over dark? But daybreak over Fatehpur was unlike anything I had seen before. The red sandstone of the Imperial city seemed to come to life, practically glowing from within as the first sunrays hit each wall, each arch and column. I sat with my back against a pillar, watching as the courtyard below came to life as well, with people crossing it from all directions, every one of them intent on their task, their destination. The devout Muslims bustled to the mosque as the call of azaan echoed loudly in the quiet morning. Two kaneez, slave girls, splashed water across the yard, hurriedly mopping and cleaning the space. A clamour sounded from the cook's quarters, and a group of menservants departed in the direction of the hammam, the bath.
I could not hold back a smile. I had never before seen people so obsessed with bathing.
"What are you smiling about alone, young man?" a voice wheezed close-by.
Turning, I saw that it was one of the sadhus, ascetics rumoured to live high up in the Himalayas. Though I had been wont to scoff at claims that such ascetics lived for several hundred years, meditating in their quiet mountain caverns, the sight of the wizened, emaciated old man had made me reconsider. His physical frailty apart, he certainly seemed to wear the wisdom of several lifetimes as an invisible mantle over his thin shoulders.
"Just observing the palace coming to life," I replied, standing to greet him. "You are up early after last night's discussion."
The old man laughed as he sat, motioning me to do the same. "When you grow as old as I am, you will realise the body doesn't need much sleep. But you are up early as well."
I nodded. "I leave for Agra in an hour. We intend to set up a permanent mission there, and there is a lot to be done."
The old man smiled. "That is good. But tell me, did you enjoy the debate last night? You did not look very enlightened at the end of it."
I was a little taken aback. In the weeks since I had arrived at Fatehpur, I had attended a number of the discussions in the Ibadat hall. They had proven to be even more interesting than I had been led to believe. They also served to make me question even more deeply my innermost beliefs and the mission that I, as a soldier of Jesus, should hold dear.
Last night, I had again been invited along with the other Jesuits to try and answer the Emperor's esoteric questions. The other discussants included the Muslim Qazis, as always, sullen and hostile; orthodox Hindu Brahmin priests; some Buddhist monks; and the sadhus. In the course of the discussion, the question of truth had been raised, and soon the entire hall had erupted in impassioned debates. Each side was adamant about their belief, and agreement on any point was rare. Yet, the atmosphere was invigorating.
Shaking my head to clear it, I finally replied, "I'm surprised you noticed in that uproar, but you are right. Despite all the talk, I don't think I could enlighten anyone about the nature of truth."
The old man cackled and wheezed, ending with a hacking cough. "For a man leading a normal life, it is enough that truth is the opposite of a lie. For a religious man, the truth is tied to the word of his God. But if you choose to go beyond these limitations, you will find that truth is beyond intellect, beyond perception, beyond belief. Your religion and your God are as true as the Qazi's, and just as false. This quibbling between religions is not a matter of truth; it is a matter of power."
I nodded slowly, again looking out towards the courtyard as I considered the old man's words. "I can see that. I had hoped that such open discussions might lead to a greater understanding between everyone, but well," I shrugged.
The sadhu smiled. "Peace and understanding are nice concepts, but they are not things you can actually apply to the world. All you can do is apply them to your own life, your own actions. You would do well to think on that. You are a missionary, are you not? You want to spread the word of God? Good, but before you spread it to the world, try and spread it within your own self."
Not waiting for a reply, the old man stood, placed a gnarled hand briefly on my head, and walked off. I watched his retreating figure in stunned silence. The sadhu had hit upon the crux of the conflict that daily raged within my mind and heart. My faith was strong, but my conviction in our mission was not. Yet, it was a good path, a noble path, of that I was sure. Did that mean it was the right path for me?
I don't know how long I sat there, deep in thought, until a manservant approached to let me know that the carriage was ready.
.._..
26 April 1582, Agra
Looking around the modest quarters we had been assigned in Agra, I sighed in frustration. I did not know how much longer I could go on like this. My lack of focus was starting to irk me. I had never before suffered from such a sense of discontentment.
Picking up my reed pen, I dipped the tip in ink and continued my current assignment—translating the life story of Fr. Francis Xavier, one of the founders of the Society of Jesus, into Persian—at the behest of the Emperor himself. Perhaps I would find the inspiration I so desperately sought in the story of this intrepid missionary.
Not half an hour later, I was interrupted by a loud knock and a frantic voice calling out my name. Unashamedly glad for the distraction, I crossed the room in three long strides and quickly unlatched the door. In the failing light, I saw a man clutching his side, panting as he sought to catch his breath.
"What is it? What is the matter?" I asked him in Hindavi.
"Please... come," the man gasped. "Master... he... hurry!" Now that he stood straighter, light from the lamp that hung over the door illuminated the man's face, and I recognised him as one of the merchant Jacob's servants.
I dashed inside to retrieve my small bag of medical supplies; then quickly followed the man into the gathering dusk. The moment we stepped out of the quiet, tree-lined courtyard of the Jesuit quarters, we were assaulted by the cacophony of noise that constantly sounded in the busy city of Agra. Pushing through a veritable river of people, I followed the servant at a brisk pace. We soon turned off into a side street, then another, until we reached a rather opulent mansion, surrounded by well-tended pleasure gardens.
A tall, thick wall enclosed the whole, but the heavy, iron-studded wooden gate stood open, and we entered with ease. Hurrying along the paved stone walkway that bisected the garden, I took quick stock of the beauty of the prospect before me—tall trees lined the path, and through the dark, overhanging boughs, I caught glimpses of light from the house, flickering and dancing tantalisingly in the distance like an elusive swarm of fireflies, the ubiquitous Indian jugnu. A few more steps, and we left the trees behind, entering an expansive courtyard before the homestead. The rising moon bathed the pale stone of the mansion's exterior in an ethereal silvery light, while the soft golden glow of candles illuminated the interior, such that the whole strongly resembled an elaborate diadem of silver, set with glowing amber stones.
I reined in my fancy; I could not spare more than a fleeting thought for my surroundings at the time. The servant led me straight into the building, through an inner courtyard, and finally into a large room where a small group of people was gathered around a still figure on the ground.
"Move away," I commanded them, settling on my knees and quickly assessing my patient.
It was Jacob, his face ashen, his eyes shut. Blood pooled around the left side of his body. A quick examination showed that the source was a long, straight, but thankfully shallow cut, that stretched along the merchant's arm, from shoulder to elbow. A light touch to the side of his neck revealed a steady, though weak pulse. A servant had been staunching the flow of blood with a cloth that was now completely soaked. It had done its job, though; the wound was no longer bleeding.
"Water, someone," I called out. "And bandages, or sheets, whatever you have."
Ignoring the wailing and shouting and general hue and cry of the servants as they set about fulfilling my demands, I started to loosen Jacob's fitted brocade jacket, so that his breathing came easier and deeper. With my pocket knife, I tore away the sleeve of his fine silk shirt.
A pale, feminine hand held out a stack of neat bandages. The young woman then quietly kneeled by my side, calmly cleaning the skin around the wound. For just a moment, my eyes strayed from my task. For just a moment, my breath caught.
A delicate purple veil covered her head and wrapped around her torso, but such was the fineness of its weave that I could clearly see the smooth expanse of her back, interrupted only by the two strings of her blouse, tied at her nape and the middle of her back. Her glossy brown hair was braided into a thick rope and casually slung over one shoulder. A garland of jasmine flowers wrapped around her braid, and even through the veil I could see how closely the creamy flowers matched the hue of her skin. She turned slightly to the left, towards me, and a flash of light sparked through the diamond of the jewel nestled in her nose-pin. There is no other way to say this; I was dazzled.
Shaken at the strange feeling that rushed through me, I pulled my gaze back to the merchant. In a raised voice, I asked, "How did this happen? Do we need to inform the Kotwal?"
Thankfully, the woman withdrew, standing a little way away, as the merchant's servant answered. "It was Ahmed Badaoni, sir. He drew his sword and stabbed Master before we could stop him. Then the coward ran away. Master will surely report him tomorrow."
I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the ridiculous picture that appeared in my mind at the man's words. From what I knew of Jacob, he was a bully with a lot of bluster but not a lot backing it. I wondered if Jacob's sword had still been in his scabbard when he was attacked. If not, he had probably just dropped it in fright.
Shaking my head, I withdrew a small pot of ointment from my bag, and applied it to his wound. Once I had bandaged the merchant's arm tight, I directed the hovering servants to dab a wet cloth at the merchant's forehead and nape. Within a few minutes, to everyone's relief, he revived. His confusion at seeing me there was eclipsed by the pain that coursed through his arm. He made no secret of his agony, either, squealing and moaning as though it was a mortal wound rather than a glorified scratch.
I quickly mixed an herbal concoction I had acquired from a Portuguese doctor at Goa, and directed the servant to administer a few drops every hour until the pain subsided. Advising them to call the merchant's usual doctor in the morning, I stood up. Nodding in relief and gratitude, the servants carefully carried their master to the richly appointed carriage that waited outside. It was only then that I realised I was not in the merchant's own house. My surprise was superseded by gratitude when I saw another servant waiting with a basin and water for me to wash my bloodied hands.
As I dried my hands, I observed with some puzzlement three ladies of various ages, standing close to the beauty who had assisted me earlier. Since when did the cloistered women of this land leave their zenana and mix so freely with men? I sighed, as the picture became clearer.
"Ye Gods," I muttered. "Am I in a whore house?"
For all that I spoke in English and in the merest of whispers besides, I could have sworn that the beauty heard me, for her lips twitched and her dark eyes briefly flashed with what could have been amusement. She stepped forward, bent her head and gracefully brought her right hand up to touch her forehead in the common gesture of greeting, or in this case, farewell.
"Shab-e khair," she said softly. "Goodnight."
.._..
Her voice echoed in my mind hours later, as I finally pushed away from my desk. I had been trying to work ever since I had returned to my quarters, but my treacherous mind constantly pulled me away from my task, and back to that... I shuddered. I had never experienced such a draw to a woman. I pushed my fingers through my hair, gripping the strands and squeezing my eyes shut, in an attempt to stop the thoughts that rushed through my mind unbidden. There was no doubt that she was a prostitute, living in a whore house. One frequented by that base merchant. I was repulsed just thinking of Jacob's crude hands on her fine skin.
I stood up and removed the long, dark cassock I wore during the day. In just my shirt and trousers, I restlessly paced the length of my small room. If not the merchant, there would be others. There must have been others. It was not my place to feel this burning anger, this jealousy. It was ridiculous. Perhaps I was going mad. This strange place, with its exotic spices, overabundance of seductive colours and women with jasmine woven in their hair... it was all making me mad. Yes, that was the trouble... it wasn't me, it was this accursed place.
I paused. I could have sworn I had heard something. A moment later, I heard it again—a small, tinkling sound. Opening my door and peering out into the shadows of the courtyard, I saw nothing for a moment, until one of the shadows moved. My breath caught, as she stepped fully into the light that spilled out of the room. I stood immobile, just taking in her pale oval face—her dark, kohl-outlined eyes fringed by thick lashes, her deep pink lips; her arched brows and short, straight nose with that devilishly glinting, enticing jewel.
She stood just as still as I, her eyes hungrily moving over my messy hair, my jaw, my grey-green eyes, finally settling on my lips. Her pink tongue passed over her lips, and I drew in a sharp breath. Our eyes met again, and then I could no longer breathe for wonder at her beauty.
I knew I should have sent her away at once, but found myself stepping back and motioning her to enter instead. How could I explain my inner agitation at that moment? I was nervous, shaken, my palms sweating with the thought of what might transpire, what I wanted to do to her. She entered my modest quarters. We were alone.
She removed her heavy cloak and it was as though she stripped away my remaining prudence. In halting but clear English, she spoke. "You are Brother Edward?"
Hearing her soft voice form the words in her strange, melodious accent momentarily stunned me. Gathering my scattered wits, I replied, "Just Edward. Call me Edward."
"Edward," she dutifully repeated, a small smile curling around the edge of her lip.
"And you are? Your name?" I asked, not particularly articulate under the effect of her smile.
"Bela," she replied.
"Bella?"
She shook her head. Plucking a bloom from the garland of jasmine around her plait, she held it out to me and repeated, "Bela."
"That is a jasmine flower, is it not?" I asked, distracted by the dark red stain of henna decorating her hands.
Huffing in exasperation, she tried once again. "Bay-la. Bela," she enunciated clearly.
At last I understood. I was not far off the mark, though, for 'Bela' was one of the Indian names for the jasmine flower. Smiling, I took the bloom from her outstretched hand and in Hindavi, said, "Is it alright for me to call you Bella? It means beautiful, and you are far lovelier than this little flower."
Even in the dim light of the lamps that illuminated the room, I could clearly see the rosy blush that spread over her creamy skin. I watched, entranced, as she smiled and slowly slid back the long veil that covered her head; then untucked the end from her waistband and finally unwound it from around her torso. She tossed the gossamer-thin cloth to the side and took a step closer, then another, till her long skirt brushed against my trousers and her warmth was a tangible presence reaching out to me. Again, our eyes met and held, her gaze setting me on fire. When I could no longer bear the tension that had so quickly built up between us, I dropped my eyes from hers.
This was not a great diversion, though. I willed my eyes not to wander over her blouse, which did nothing to hide the lush curves of her breasts. Given my height and her proximity, I could clearly see the creamy swells that pushed out above the cloth, and the deep valley between.
Helpless to control my impulse, I moved my eyes lower, onto the expanse of toned skin that stretched invitingly bare from just under her breasts all the way to where her skirt was tied at her hips. Her waist was so slender, it could barely measure more than two hand-spans. My fingers twitched, eager to test my theory, but somehow, I controlled myself. When she took yet another step towards me, I closed my eyes and breathed her in, the heady sweetness of the flowers mixed with a mellow, earthy scent. I was lost in that moment; lost in her.
But then she placed her palms flat against my chest, and her heat seared through my coarse clothing, so hot as though she had branded my skin. "No!" I exclaimed, suddenly furious at her for tempting me, and frustrated with myself for refusing her. I stepped back, stumbling a little as my legs hit the edge of my desk.
She tilted her head to the side, a small worried frown on her brow. "What is the matter?" she asked. "Would you prefer me not to touch you?"
"Yes," I said in a strangled voice. "Do not touch me. Stay away. You should not have come here."
"But I could not stay away," she confessed, looking down bashfully at her clasped hands. "From the moment I saw you, my eyes have been blind to everything else. I don't know if the moon is high this night, or if the stars shine anymore. I don't even know when or how I reached your door. I only know that I could not stay away. Will you still have me leave?"
Her words shook my resolve. I let out a shuddering breath and shut my eyes. I gripped the edge of the table I leant against, lest I grab for her instead, and thus seal my fate.
Taking a hesitant step forward, she spoke again. "I know nothing can come of this. Someone like you is as far beyond my reach as the moon or the stars. But will you not let me pretend, just for one night? Pretend that I am someone you might want? You will soon leave, and forget about me. Will you not give me this one night to remember?"
My eyes shot open and met hers. No one had ever affected me as she did. No one had ever spoken to me with such yearning or open desire. No one had ever made me want something so badly.
"What good will one night do?" The words slipped out unbidden.
"Then take more than one night," she said, her words tinged with desperation. She reached out and covered my hand with her own. A thrill ran through my frame, and when she stepped back, my body followed hers. "I will be yours as long as you want me, yours alone. Whatever you ask of me, it is yours. You will never have known such pleasure," she promised, her eyes sparkling, breaths coming faster, her entire body trembling in anticipation.
Her words stopped me short. It was true that my body had never known such pleasure. And with good reason. Were the wiles of this woman all it would take to corrupt me? I was horrified and revolted by how close I was to giving in to my carnal desires. I wrenched my hand from hers and turned to face the latticed window.
"Go away. I don't want anything to do with you. Go away, and take your lures with you," I commanded, my voice a low growl.
I could not see her, but heard the catch in her breath. A moment later, there was a rustle and I knew that she had sunk to her knees. Her voice was soft and sorrowful when she spoke. "Why will you not have me?"
"I... I am a priest. I don't... I can't... I can't," I stuttered, trying to keep my gaze averted from her, lest I lose the last vestiges of restraint and good sense.
In that moment, I am sure my tortured, longing expression mirrored hers. The tinkling of her bangles warned me when she moved to shift closer, and I took a sharp step away. She flinched as though slapped.
She looked away, trying to hide her brimming tears. "I am sorry. I saw you today, and I felt... so different, as though I had found something I was searching for, and I hoped..." She buried her head in her hands as teardrops slid down her cheeks.
Her soft sob compelled me to turn back fully, and that was my undoing. Seeing her tears, I could not stop myself. I dropped to my knees before her and gently pulled her hands away from her face. "It is not your fault. I... I suppose, doing what you do... no one would say no to you."
A glimmer of a smile appeared, as she wiped away her tears. "Not everyone gets the chance to come this close to me. And never before have I wished for someone as I have wished for you."
"No? But I thought... are you not... earlier, wasn't Jacob there..."
"Jacob?" she questioned, cutting into my confused rambling before I could tie myself up into further knots.
"The merchant, Yakub. Jacob is the Christian version of his name, and easier for me to remember," I explained.
"Yes, Yakub," she murmured, her face falling. She rose hurriedly, grabbing her cloak and wrapping herself up in it. "I should go. I'm sorry, so very sorry for assuming... but I don't regret a single moment I have spent with you."
Before she could escape, my hands were at her shoulders, pulling her back, turning her around. I swiftly positioned myself between her and the door. "Wait. Stay a while. We could talk?" My words and actions surprised me, but I could not find it in me to repent.
Her radiant smile was the only answer she gave, before throwing herself at me and winding her arms tight around my torso. This sweet torment lasted but a moment; then, just as swift, she stepped back, grinning impishly.
"What would you like to talk about?" she asked, tossing aside the cloak again. She settled herself comfortably at one end of my narrow bed, her feet dangling off the edge.
I was momentarily distracted by the sight of her slender ankle encircled by an intricately worked silver anklet. I shook my head with a smile and turned the desk chair to face her. "I want to know everything about you."
.._..
We lost count of the hours we sat across from each other, just talking, our language a strange mix of English, Persian and Hindavi that would have confounded anyone else.
"How did you come to learn English?" I asked her.
"There was a trader," she began. At my grimace, she laughed. "An English trader, a few years ago, was a paramour of my aunt. She was his consort at the behest of a Prince for some months. You saw her earlier this evening, did you not?"
"Oh. Uh, I don't recall. His consort, you say? I'm not sure how... Bella, I have seen women here and in Europe, who charge money for the use of their bodies, but..." I paused, unsure of how to phrase my question.
She laughed at my confusion. "It is not men's bodies that crave pleasure so much as their minds," she said. "Edward, I am not sure how it is where you come from, but here, there are many kinds of public women. I am a ganika—a courtesan, you might say. Sex is not our defining skill, as it is for a common prostitute or even for a slave bought in the market. They may be beautiful, some may have a pleasing voice, but they are not much valued for their skills, beyond sexual pleasure."
"So you don't have... relations with men?" I asked haltingly, wondering if she would be offended.
"We do," she replied frankly. "Princes and noblemen do come to us. I please both men and women—with my song, with my dance, through conversation, sometimes with my body. But my company is sought after. I am respected, I am invited to social events. I am a woman, Edward, and just as liberated or constricted as any woman is, no matter her position or profession. As a ganika, I am just more aware and educated than most. If that wasn't true, why would you, a learned priest, spend time in my company, just talking as we are?"
Shifting to recline on her side, she continued, "From the time we are children, we are trained, not only in all the arts of attraction, but also in all the arts of the mind. We are educated, we write poetry, we usually learn different languages, calligraphy. We play chess as well as we play a musical instrument—or a man's body."
There was no doubt in my mind about that. I gulped and avoided her playful, seductive gaze. "They really teach you all that?"
"And more," she said, nodding. "My mother says that in a way, we are also the custodians of culture. We are not exactly part of society, but we are essential to it."
I nodded slowly, as the picture became clearer. "And the mansion is your mother's?"
"My mother and her sisters, together, have been gifted the mansion."
"And Jacob?"
She frowned and looked away. "He is a rich merchant, and has recently become close to the eldest Prince. I was at the palace a few weeks ago, in the zenana, and he saw me as I left. He tried to barge into our home once, but the guards threw him out. There are taxes and dues to be paid for our company, after all. Then he asked the Prince to intercede." She smiled ruefully. "You don't refuse a Prince. So today, I was prepared to entertain him, but the Gods heard my prayers. He arrived late, and I had already started my dance for the evening. He must have been drinking as well, for he started abusing our other patrons for 'enjoying what was his'," she said with a grimace. "You heard what happened next. He challenged Ahmed Badaoni, and got injured for his trouble. I think he actually fainted at the sight of his own blood. In any case, we sent his servant to get a doctor. He came back with you." She smiled shyly at me.
I could not hold back my own grin.
.._..
Our questions had no end; neither did our desire to know the other as well as we knew ourselves. We asked and answered, sharing pieces of our pasts, pieces of our souls that we had never entrusted to anyone else.
I told her of my childhood in a small English village, and the epidemic that had taken away my entire family in one fell swoop. I paced for a while as I spoke, then moved to settle on the ground with my back to the bed, as I told her of the dark months when I had wandered alone, hungry and terrified. She shifted closer, and perhaps sensing my need for contact, ran her fingers soothingly through my hair. Her touch calmed me, and I told her of reaching London, and stealing—first fruits, then bread, and finally coins from men's pockets. She smiled and kissed my forehead softly when I told her of meeting Father Carlisle and how my life had changed from that moment. How I now wanted to do for others what the good Father had done for me.
"I knew from the moment I met you that you were a good man. I know now how hopeless my desire for you is," she said, laying her head on her hand and looking at with a mixture of awe and tenderness that made me wish I was the man she seemed to imagine me to be.
I huffed out a laugh. "I am not a good man, Bella. You seem to see me as some kind of a hero. But what if I'm not what you think? What if I am the villain?"
She frowned and swatted at my head. "You are making fun of me now. I am a very good judge of character, I'll have you know."
I shivered as her fingers flicked at my ear and gently grazed the sensitive skin just beneath. Even her chastisement was sensual. I grabbed her hand in mine, to prevent any further touches that might make my body react in these unexpectedly unchaste ways.
"I have... doubts," I started haltingly, tracing her long, graceful fingers with my own larger ones. "I thought this was my path. The idea of travelling to the ends of the world, spreading the word of Christ, it seemed the perfect way to make Carlisle proud. And I was so excited to see the world. I reached Goa, and stayed at the Portuguese settlement for two years. I learnt local languages, I visited the missions, I saw the terrible conditions people sometimes live in. But Bella, instead of fuelling my fervour, these things have made me wonder if this is the right thing to do. Should I not feel uplifted and eager to spread the light of Christianity? Should I not be in agreement with any and all methods of conversion that bring these poor infidels into the fold? Why do I find myself sympathising with the natives, then? Why do I think that it is wrong to negate their beliefs? Why do I feel that our faith is not the answer to all the questions, as we claim? I am doing what I must, but my heart is not in it."
I squeezed my eyes shut, almost faint with the relief that washed over me at having finally admitted my doubts to another person. Opening my eyes, I was further relieved to see understanding in her eyes.
"Why would it be so wrong to want a different life, a different path?" she asked softly. "What would I not give to have a different life, one where I could make my own decisions, live free of the whims of others. Why do you deny yourself that choice?"
"I don't know my own mind," I sighed. "I don't know right from wrong anymore."
"Forget right and wrong for a minute," she said, rolling onto her stomach, and kicking up her feet in the air. "What do you want? Anything in the world, if you could forget about rules, and responsibilities, and right and wrong... what would you want?"
"You," I replied, without hesitation. "But what right have I to ask you to leave your life and join mine when I don't even know where my life is going?"
Before I could utter another word, she had turned my head towards her own, and her lips had claimed mine. I tilted my head further, submitting to the sheer ecstasy of touching her so intimately. She sucked my lower lip between her own, and I tried to follow her lead, hesitantly at first, but as her pleasure became apparent, I became bolder, more sure. It was many moments before we broke apart for want of air, and in that short time, I made the terrifying discovery that I was addicted to the sweetness of her lips.
She briefly hid her face in the bedspread, before looking up at me through her lashes, her lips curved up in a strangely shy smile. Unable to stop myself, I leaned in and softly pecked her lips, then her eyelids, and finally her forehead, before dropping back my head on the bed with a sigh. I found myself wishing that I did have an alternative in mind, so that I could ask her to join me, now, this very moment. We could leave all this behind, and...
The faint sounds of the azaan sounded through the stillness. It was dawn.
Bella sighed, then gathered her skirts and stood up. She avoided my gaze as she stretched, fruitlessly attempting to hide her despair at having to leave. I, on the other hand, could not tear my eyes away from her. I observed every movement from my seat on the floor, where I still leant against the bed she had so recently vacated.
"I must go, Edward," she said wistfully.
I reached up and held her hand. For a moment, we just looked at each other, an unspoken regret heavy in both our hearts. I kissed her hand softly, before releasing her.
Neither of us spoke, as I stood and helped her remove the jasmine from her hair, then watched as she smoothed her untidy braid and wound her long, heavy hair into a low bun. I helped her straighten out her clothing, draped her veil over her head, and with a tender kiss to her forehead, placed her dark cloak over her shoulders. Then I watched helplessly, as she slipped out of my room, and out of my life.
Alone again, I sank to my knees, as much because of the fatigue of my sleepless night, as the utter despair that enveloped me at her departure. A flash of light caught my eye. Lying on the floor, partially hidden by my bed, was one beautifully wrought silver anklet. I picked it up and brought it to my lips as reverently as though it were my rosary.
.._..
3 May 1582, Agra
Despite the finality of our farewells, I could not help but hope that we would meet again. Beyond our attraction, beyond our vastly different stations in life, I felt a kinship to her that had shaken me to the core. It did not seem possible that the good Lord would be so heartless as to show me a brief glimpse of the joy that came from the melding of our minds, hint at the possible ecstasy that might result from a melding of our flesh, and then take it all away without compunction. My mind could not comprehend such a thing, and my body... my body was beyond any reasoning.
What began as abstraction during my waking hours that first day, soon translated into complete wanton absorption at night. Every morning, I would wake up clutching fruitlessly at fragments of dreams... The skin of her slender waist, soft and warm under my fingertips... Her lips, teasing my own... The taste and feel of her peaked breast on my tongue... And throughout, her unique scent of jasmine and earthy musk, tantalising and enticing me. Upon waking that first day, I was surprised at the painful hardening of my pintel, but it did not take my depraved mind long to shift from shock and embarrassment to resigned expectation and desperate pleasure. I was never more glad at the absence of the Jesuit Fathers from Agra than I was in those shameless mornings.
As much as I tried to stay my course, within a week, I had exhausted my reserves of restraint and circumspection. I knew now, beyond a shadow of doubt, that I was no longer fit to be a Jesuit. I was not yet decided on my future path, but I would settle on that by and by. First, I had to meet Bella.
It would not do to apply for her company in the usual way one would approach a courtesan—I did not want to have word of my activities reach the Jesuit Fathers, or worse, the Emperor. It would take a mere rumour to decimate the moral high ground they had established for themselves, and for Christianity. No; renegade I might be, but I could not besmirch my faith in such a base manner.
After a little contemplation, I decided upon a plan to meet her that I believed might work. Before I could act upon it, though, I heard from her. Not in person, this time, but a short, distressed missive hastily thrust under my door. I knew it was from her even before I opened it, from the distinctive earthy scent that clung to the paper.
How perverse is the human mind; for as much as I had longed for some sign from her all these days, yet now that I had it in my hands, I felt strangely reluctant to read it. Perhaps she was as miserable without me as I was without her? My heart beat faster at the thought. With a quick glance at the dried string of jasmine that was now wrapped around the rim of my inkwell, I finally unfolded the thin paper.
"Edward,
Yakub has made a deal with the Prince, and I am the commodity. At daybreak, four days hence, I am to travel to his house outside Agra, to be at his pleasure for a full month. I pray that you find your way, for I fear I am lost.
Bela."
My vision blurred and there was a sharp ringing in my ears. I blinked, and read the short missive again, and then again. The words did not at first make sense to my addled brain. A month with that brute? How was this possible? I groped my way to my desk, sitting down heavily before carefully spreading her letter out before me.
Intent on torturing myself, I perused her words once again. My eyes caught on one phrase: 'at his pleasure'. An animalistic roar escaped my lips. I had thought that I had suffered when Bella had left a week ago, but that was nothing compared to the pain that now ripped through my very soul.
Rage crashed over me, obliterating conscious thought. I rose and crushed the letter in my fist, throwing it with the force of my fury to the far end of my room. I snatched up the heavy tomes piled on my desk and flung them, where, I neither knew, nor cared. Gripping the simple wooden chair, I raised my arms and smashed it on the stone floor with all my might. I snapped my pens in half, flinging the broken pieces aside. In a frenzy, I grasped at the inkpot; my finger tangled in the dried string of jasmine, and I found myself on the floor, clutching it to my heart, as I wept.
A short while or perhaps a long while later, I had exhausted my rage and my impotent tears. All that remained was a burning need to rescue my beloved from a situation that was clearly as repugnant to her as it was to me. I retrieved her letter and smoothed it out. Sitting on the floor in the midst of my ruined room, I found my mind for once clear of all doubt and confusion. If I could not protect Bella... if I could not be with her, this life was not worth living. I stood and walked to the basin to splash some water on my face. I tidied my clothing and combed my hair neatly. It was time to take charge of my life, and of my love.
.._..
The heat of the afternoon had mellowed, though sunset was still a way away when I walked up to Bella's house. Greeting the armed guard at the gate, I requested to speak with any of the ladies of the house who might be available.
The guard looked suspicious, and demanded my name and purpose of my visit.
"My name is Brother Edward, and I was called here about a week ago," I said with a disarming smile. "A merchant, Yakub Siyah, had been injured, and I was asked to tend to his wound. I am sure you recall the instance. I believe I left behind some of my medical supplies and wished to enquire if they had been found."
The man seemed suitably impressed, and asked me to follow him. We entered the gate-house through a side entrance, bypassing the massive iron-studded gate entirely. I was then bade to follow a young man, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age, who led the way through the pleasure gardens that I had barely noticed on my last visit, but that I now saw were beautifully laid out, with fruit trees, shrubs and fountains in the char-bagh pattern so popular amongst the Mughals.
I made a conscious effort to relax and keep my countenance impassive as we entered the main building, and reached the inner courtyard. Instead of the large hall I had seen last week, the boy led me to a smaller chamber to the right, holding aside the heavy brocade curtains and indicating that I should enter. I merely nodded and stepped inside, hoping against hope that I would be fortunate enough to meet Bella.
I was not, and faced instead a lady approaching middle age, but remarkably beautiful for all that. In the manner typical of these parts, the only articles of furniture in the room were a couple of low tables arranged beside a thick mattress, lined with large round bolsters. The entire set up was so aligned as to provide a clear view of the garden outside, through the huge, arched, unglazed windows. The lady reclined against one of the bolsters, a hookah on the floor before her, and the pipe in her hand.
"Good evening," she greeted me in a low, attractive voice. "Do come in. I apologise, I would have risen, but my ankle is twisted and will not allow me to do so. I slipped this morning, and have bound my foot up myself. But now that you are here, perhaps you could look at it for me?" She brought forth a most shapely foot, and pulled up her skirt to her calf, revealing supple skin and taut muscle, bound by a strip of plain cloth.
I took my time crossing the fine Persian carpet that covered the floor. By the time I bent down on one knee to examine her injured foot, I had myself well in hand. There was no doubt in my mind that this was a test of some sort, and I was determined not to fail.
I unbound her foot, flexed the ankle gently and assured her that the muscle was merely strained. Re-binding her foot, I was conscious that her sharp gaze never left my face. As I tucked the end of the cloth back neatly into the bandage, I heard her draw on the hookah pipe, the gurgling of the water the only sound in the room. When I looked up at her, she blew smoke right at my face. Still I did not flinch, merely raising my eyebrows slightly.
With a laugh, she waved the smoke away and motioned to the mattress. "Come, sit with me and tell me what brings you here," she said.
I inclined my head and settled myself next to her, leaving a respectable amount of space between us. "I was here last week, as you may recall," I started.
"Yes, indeed," she agreed. "That idiot Yakub."
"Just as you say. Well, I believe I may have forgotten some of my medical supplies here that night. If you would be so kind as to ask the young lady who helped me..."
"Young lady? Oh, you mean Bela. I'm afraid that will be difficult, for she is not here at the moment."
"I see," I replied, trying to hide how the news affected me. "Perhaps you might inform her that I had stopped by, and if she does find my things, you could have them sent over?"
"That will not be possible either," she said, pursing her lips in a coquettish pout, her voice dipping. "You see, she has been summoned to the Imperial zenana for a few days. And then, she has been contracted to that fool Yakub, and will leave directly from there."
This news came as a heavy blow, and try as I might, I wasn't entirely successful in hiding its effect. My hostess's shrewd eyes never left my countenance.
"You seem a little pale," she said solicitously, leaning over to pour a draught of a sweet-smelling red drink from a tall jar by her side. Handing me the silver tumbler, she said, "Do have a little sherbet, you will feel better. Perhaps the heat was too much for you?"
I took a fortifying sip, and cleared my throat. "Madam, do you think it would be possible to send her a message at all? I leave in a few days, and I am in desperate need of these articles."
She raised her brow and took a languid pull at her hookah. Blowing out another cloud of smoke, she commented, "You could not find a... replacement? Surely there are others that would do just as well?"
To my consternation, she shifted closer, leaning forward in a way that exposed rather more of her ample bosom than I had any desire to see. I resolutely kept my sight fixed on her elaborately outlined black eyes. There was no doubt in my mind that we were no longer talking about my hypothetical medical supplies; nor that she knew more than she was letting on. The question was, could I trust her?
"There are some things," I said, choosing my words carefully, "that are one of a kind. There are no replacements. There will never be any replacements."
"Oh, I don't know," she said facetiously. "In our line of work, I've learnt that permanence is an illusion. More than one person has found that out the hard way. It is not an easy lesson to learn." Her voice hardened, and her lips firmed, as she turned to look out at the garden. "You would do well to remember that before you ask me to send Bela any messages."
"And in my way of life, there is nothing but constancy. I had devoted my life to my mission, but now Bella is my life. Please, allow me to talk without dissembling," I said, moving to kneel before her again. "There has never been anyone but her. There will never be anyone but her. I will not let her go to that merchant. I cannot. If there is no way to get a message to her, I will find another way to stop her."
At last, a genuine smile broke across my hostess's face. "I wondered what it was that had attracted her so. I will help you."
I blinked, a little taken aback at her sudden volte-face. Before I could do more than gape, she spoke again, frowning a little. "The situation is difficult, but not impossible. We could try to send her a message, but in a place like the Imperial zenana, with all those meddling eunuchs, it is more than likely that it will be intercepted. If word got round to the Prince, she could be severely punished."
"Could you not just send her a message asking her to return?" I asked.
"Her mother is with her, Edward. There is no good excuse to ask for Bela's return and not my sister's. And no, we cannot involve my sister in this. She will not understand."
"But you do," I said. "You are the aunt whose beau taught her English, are you not?"
She smiled, and once again I was struck by how truly beautiful she was. "Yes, I am Gul-naar. But that is not the point. What is it that you wish to do?"
"I want to take Bella away and build a new life for us. I had hoped to convince her to flee with me before she was to go to the merchant."
She shook her head. "If Bela was to run away with you, Yakub would surely give chase. He is wealthy and knows a great many people on all the major highways. You would not get very far, and Bela would be hauled over the coals when you were caught. He has paid a hefty amount for her, don't forget. And not just Bela, we too will have to pay. No, merely running away will not do. You must kidnap her."
I am sure my jaw dropped at the cool assurance with which she delivered the last part of her speech.
"I'm sorry? Why would I do that? She will be happy to come along, I am sure."
"Edward," she said sharply. "I will pray that you do not get caught. But in case you do, Bela will not be held accountable, if she was taken against her will. Do you understand?"
I nodded. I did not like it, but I saw her point.
"Now, listen carefully," she said, leaning forward. "The day Bela is to leave for Yakub's mansion, she will first stop at the Dargah of Salim Chisti, at Fatehpur. That is where you must act."
I narrowed my eyes, making quick mental alterations to the plan I had earlier devised. It would be risky, more so because the Dargah was situated so close to the Imperial palace. However, if it was my best chance to spirit her away from that brute, and from this life... I nodded and smiled. "I will. And I hope to have her away and safe without any impediments." I grasped her hand in both of mine. "I will never be able to thank you enough for your help."
She smiled a little wryly. "Just keep my niece safe and happy. She deserves more than she will ever get here. She deserves a lifetime of love."
"You have my word," I promised, standing.
With one last smile, I swiftly walked out into the courtyard, passed through the garden, and stepped out of the gates of the mansion I would never enter again.
.._..
7 May, 1582
We seem to be traversing a path composed entirely of potholes, and the dust is once again my faithful travelling companion. The sun has been high this past hour or more; the mounting heat will make travelling particularly unpleasant very soon. Despite these discomforts, and the uncertainties of my situation, I find myself remarkably calm. I did not know my own self; that is the truth.
After I met Gul-naar, it was as though the angels themselves smoothed my path. It was not difficult for me to arrange to leave Agra for a few weeks. I claimed a desire to study texts at the Imperial library at Delhi, and the good Fathers of our Mission gladly acquiesced. My plan was simple, and it only took me a day or so to have everything at the ready.
Last night, I reached Fatehpur, to take my leave of the Emperor, and through some dissembling, to gain access to his signed firmans, which will be my passport to cross the borders of his Empire unimpeded. He was gracious as ever, and has unknowingly gifted me with the keys to mine and Bella's freedom.
So keen was I to see my Bella once again, that I sat in wait outside the Dargah from well before midnight. It was as well, for in this native attire and shrouded by my cloak, I was able to blend in easily with the kind of occasional contemplative devotee, who spends hours in meditative silence (or perhaps sleep), huddled in the alcoves of the sandstone pavilion surrounding this structure. I will not lie; I have for long been strongly opposed to Sufi practices simply because of their affiliation with Islam. But last night, waiting for my love, with the haunting songs of their ecstatic devotion permeating the air, I could not stay unmoved.
As though answering my prayers, she entered the hospice at earliest dawn, her luminous beauty impossible to miss even in that dim twilight. It was still so dark that she did not notice as I followed her, and waited while she prayed in the women's enclosure. The shadows hid me well, and the moment she walked back into the courtyard, I had her. The sponge soaked in opiate worked as it should, and she was limp in my arms within moments. There were no witnesses, and no one to raise an alarm.
Then it was just a matter of exiting from the small side door, where my cart waited, as arranged. I doubt if my driver will question my story of an ailing wife seeking the saint's blessings. He has so far shown himself to be a phlegmatic fellow, not very talkative. We have made good time and are now close to Delhi, following the route I had originally proposed to the Jesuit Fathers. I will not tarry here, though. The danger is not yet past. As soon as Bella wakens, we will continue northwards—the farther from Agra, the better.
I look down now at her sleeping figure and am wonderstruck. Today she is wrapped up in a drab, dark cloak, her fine hair is covered and there are no ornaments, bar the simple nose-pin that draws attention to the fineness of her features. With her by my side, the future holds no fear. However, I do fear Bella's reaction, when she wakes and sees me for who I am. I did not have any way to alert her to the strategy her aunt and I had devised. Will she hate me for abducting her? Will she recognise that I am no better than Jacob, for taking what I want? Will she still want me, and walk with me on this uncertain path?
My hopes are pinned on this last possibility, for I cannot survive letting her go again.
She has changed me; or perhaps she has merely uncovered my real nature. I am willing to repudiate any religion, any authority that keeps me from her. Bella is my truth. She is my devotion. She is my ibadat.
.._..
Hindavi: Early form of Hindi, blending elements of Arabic and Persian with local North Indian dialects.
Kotwal: Medieval Indian version of a policeman.
Sarai: Rest houses, located at regular intervals along the major routes.
Zenana: The women's part of the house. Only men from their families were allowed in.
Azaan: The call for prayers, usually from the top of one of the towers of a mosque.
Firman: A royal order, bearing the seal of the Emperor.
Hookah: A smoking instrument where tobacco (or cannabis or any other substance) is vaporised and smoke passes through water before inhalation. It became popular in the Mughal Empire during Akbar's reign.