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The Moghul

The Moghul

Titel: The Moghul Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Thomas Hoover
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containing gifts, and the letter."
    "I know what he has. Tell him he must bring the gifts to durbar . For his sake I hope they're not trifles. His Majesty is most anxious to see them."
    And the queen is even more anxious to see the letter, Nadir Sharif told himself. Then he smiled as he realized he would see it first.
    It will be an interesting afternoon.
    A fanfare of drums sounded faintly from the ramparts of the Red Fort, and for a moment the morning sun seemed to glow even brighter against the gleaming panels of the Jasmine Tower. Nadir Sharif turned toward the darshan balcony. From the shadow of its embroidered satin awning a figure had suddenly emerged. It was just possible to make out the man's glistening robe and his elaborate, patterned turban. Then the heavy jewels of his earrings momentarily caught the morning sunshine and sent streams of light flashing outward. All the waiting crowd bowed low, each man touching the back of his right hand to the ground and then bringing the palm to his forehead as he drew erect. It was the formal teslim given the Moghul, signifying each man's readiness to give himself as an offering.
    Nadir Sharif scrutinized the scene carefully and drew an almost audible sigh of relief. Then he turned to Vasant Rao.
    "Have you ever seen the Moghul at morning darshan ? He continued on distractedly, neglecting to pause for an answer. "You know, it's actually a custom began by Akman, who worshiped the sun as one of the gods. But Arangbar appears in order to maintain his own authority. If he missed darshan for a day, rumors would begin he was dead. Three days and there would be anarchy."
    Suddenly the cheers from the courtyard died abruptly. In the silence that followed, a single pigeon's cry could be heard from overhead. Nadir Sharif whirled to see a second figure now standing on the balcony beside Arangbar.
    It was a dark-haired woman. He could not tell if she wore a veil, but her tiara of jewels glistened in the early sun. The color drained from Nadir Sharif’s face as he watched.
    So the rumor was true. For the first time in history, she has appeared beside him at darshan , to be worshiped equally.
    Vasant Rao found himself staring in astonishment.
    Queen Janahara. This is truly the beginning of the end for the prince. He will never see Agra again. Unless he's at the head of an army, or in chains.
    "What does it mean?" Vasant Rao could think of nothing else to say.
    "Times and fashions change. Perhaps it's a whim of His Majesty." Nadir Sharif did not turn his gaze from the balcony. He did not want Vasant Rao to see his eyes.
    "Escort the feringhi to durbar today. He's not safe here alone."
    "As you wish, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao paused and studied the back of Nadir Sharifs turban. "Do you have a message for the prince when I return?"
    "Official channels will serve for any message I have to give the prince." The prime minister whirled with uncharacteristic abruptness. "That will be all. You would be wise to be out of Agra when the sun rises tomorrow."
    As Vasant Rao made his way past the waiting eunuchs, Nadir Sharif turned once more to examine the darshan balcony. He watched in growing dismay as the courtiers on the platform began salaams to Queen Janahara, who now stood boldly at the forefront of the canopied marble portico.
    Then he recalled the dispatch from Mumtaz.

    *
    A line of mounted Imperial guards cleared a pathway through the narrow street, now a midday throng of bullock carts, dark-skinned porters, ambling cattle, and black-veiled women balancing heavy brass pots atop their heads. Along both sides of the street tan awnings shielded lines of quick- eyed, bearded merchants, who squatted on their porches beckoning all to inspect their unprecedented bargains in cloth, reeds, betel leaves. Vendors sizzled flat bread in charcoal-fired round pans and dropped balls of brown dough into dark pots of smoking oil, seasoning the dusty air with piquant spice. Above the clatter of their horses' hooves came a cacophony of street Hindi, squeaking cart wheels, children's discordant piping.
    Between the open shops were ornate doorways, framed in delicate plasterwork scallops, leading upward to overhead balconies supported by red sandstone brackets. Behind the latticework screens that fronted these balconies—some carved rosewood, some filigreed marble—Hawksworth could see clusters of idle women chewing betel and fanning themselves as they leaned forward to inspect the procession

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