The Moghul

darshan window was unobstructed.
    Darshan was the dawn appearance Arangbar made daily at a special balcony in the east wall of the Red Fort, next to the river gate. It was strict custom that the chief officials of Arangbar's court also appear daily, on a high platform just beneath the darshan balcony, where along with the Moghul they greeted the well-wishers who streamed in through the river gate and provided visual confirmation that India's rule was intact.
    The square below the balcony—a grassy expanse between the side of the fort and the river wall, where Arangbar held noontime elephant fights and, on Tuesdays, executions by specially trained elephants—had already filled almost to capacity. Agra's most prominent noblemen were there, as prudence required, and today there also were clusters of important visitors. Several Rajput chieftains from the northwest, astride prancing Arabian horses, passed regally through the river gate and assumed prominent positions. Then a path was cleared for a large embassy of Safavid Persian diplomats, each of whose palanquins was borne by four slaves in gleaming velvet liveries; next several desert Uzbek khans in leather headdress rode into the square; and finally three Portuguese Jesuits in black cassocks trooped through the river gate and moved imperiously to the front of the crowd.
    Nadir Sharif watched as his pigeons were swallowed by the morning haze and then settled himself onto a canopied couch to observe darshan . The eunuchs of the zenana had whispered that this morning would be different, that there would be a precedent-shattering occurrence. For once a zenana rumor seemed all too plausible, and late the previous evening he had sent a dispatch through a qazi , a high judge, pleading illness and excusing himself from darshan . And now he had stationed himself to watch. How would the court officials react? Had they too heard the rumors? And what of those who had gathered below to salute Arangbar with the traditional teslim .
    Most importantly, what of Nadir Sharif? This day could well be a turning point in the course of India's history . . . and in the three decades of his preeminence at court. If the rumors were true.
    Nadir Sharif was easily the most accomplished courtier in India, a skill that had earned him the most splendid palace in Agra after the Moghul himself. His position brought with it not merely a palace, but also the mansab rank and jagir wealth required to maintain it. Only enormous wealth could sustain the hungry host of slaves, eunuchs, concubines, musicians, dancers, and wives who thronged his Agra palace.
    Success for Nadir Sharif had always seemed so effortless, so inevitable, he often marveled that so few others had ever grasped the elementary secret. His simple formula for longevity, in a court where favorites daily rose and fell, was first to establish with certainty which side of a difference would inevitably triumph, and then to unveil his own supporting views.
    He had made a lifelong habit of seeing everything. And saying almost nothing. He understood well that thoughts unsaid often served better than those voiced too hastly. Whereas the way of others might be flawed by a penchant for the zenana , or jewels, or those intoxicants the Prophet ha so futilely prohibited, Nadir Sharifs sole worldly obsession was power—from which nothing, absolutely nothing, had ever turned his head. For a decade he had ruled the Moghul empire in all but name, forwarding to Arangbar only those petitions he favored, holding in advisement any he opposed, counseling the Moghul at every turn—but always through other, unsuspecting voices if the advice was anything save disguised flattery.
    His meticulous attention to affairs at court did not exclude foreign trade. For years his voice had been raised against any who counseled Arangbar in directions adverse to Portuguese interests. This attention did not pass unnoticed in Goa, and when a kingly jewel was sent to Arangbar, another of only slightly inferior dimensions always found its way into the hands of Nadir Sharif.
    The first rays of sun struck the hard ocher sandstone of the Red Fort's east wall and suddenly it glowed like an inflamed ruby, throwing its warmth across the face of the Jamuna River. Moments later the heightening sun illuminated the rooftops of Agra, a sea of red tile and thatch that spread out in a wide arc west of the fort.
    Agra, the capital of Moghul India, was one of the great cities of the East. It