A Feast In Exile

Prostrated before his sacred lamp, Rustam Iniattir prayed to Ormazd to keep him safe through the night that had just fallen. A Parsi, and a follower of Zarathustra, he was keenly aware of being alone in a strange country, one of a small community of Parsi living among those who did not share his language or his faith, his ties to Persia stretched to the breaking-point, in a place that was increasingly dangerous. He tried to think of his family, of his wife and four children, but when he did, panic began to rise in him and he was unable to keep his mind on his rite. "What is it that comes out of darkness, but Ahriman, and all that is given to evil?" he asked ritualistically, and made reverence to the lamp again. "O you Soul of Light, guard me from the perils of darkness, lest I am lost." He looked up, hoping to see the little flame brighten as a sign his prayers had been heard, but instead he saw it waver as a door was opened somewhere in the cave-like shrine. Iniattir rose to his knees, shivering from what he told himself was cold.

"Rustam Iniattir," said a pleasant voice behind him; he had to be inside the shrine, for his words echoed hollowly and made it difficult for Rustam Iniattir to locate this intruder who was beyond the reach of the half-dozen lamps hung around the disk of the altar.

Terrified, the Parsi turned, almost stumbling as he rose to his feet. "O Ormazd, give me your beams of light for swords, and your brilliance to put the manifestation of Ahriman to flight. Guard me with your luminous presence."

"And bear me to your realm where darkness is banished forever," said the voice, finishing the prayer and surprising Iniattir almost into silence; he went on in the old Persian tongue, "I mean you no harm; you have nothing to fear from me." The voice was mellifluous, reassuring, in an accent that Rustam Iniattir could not quiet identify; his pledges were accompanied by the purposeful sound of his boots on the stone floor, augmented by echoes, as he approached Rustam Iniattir.

"So we are told evil always promises us," Rustam Iniattir muttered, his hand going to the hilt of his dagger.

"As do those with beneficent intentions as well." The stranger spoke calmly, as if to quiet a startled child.

"If that is your purpose, why do you come at night? This is a time of Ahriman." Stating his apprehension so plainly made Rustam Iniattir clench his teeth.

"Do you think evil would dare to enter this shrine, even at night?" the voice inquired lightly. "You have said this is your sanctuary. You have made this a place of Light."

"And so it is," said Rustam Iniattir, trying to convince himself that the shrine was strong enough to protect him.

"Not everything abroad at night is of Ahriman's nature," said the voice, and finally its man of origin came into the circle of light.

Rustam Iniattir stared at the man. "Who are you?" he demanded. "I do not know you. You are not one of us."

"No, I am not," said the stranger, then added cordially, "I am called Sanat Ji Mani, at present."

"Is it your name?" Rustam Iniattir demanded, relieved that the face, illuminated by the lamps, was human-the features were Western: having the look of middle years, with dark hair, slightly curling, a wide brow, nose not quite straight, and eyes that were deep as the sea and dark as a starless night-and his manner respectful.

"It is close enough," said Sanat Ji Mani. He took a step closer and revealed himself; he was somewhat taller than Rustam Iniattir, dressed in a loose kandys of heavy black silk, with neat boots of red-tooled leather rising to his calves. He carried no weapons, and his only ornament was a small fibula of a silver-winged black disk worn at the neck of his garment. Simple though his clothing was, it was clearly of the highest quality.

"What are you doing here?" Rustam Iniattir made himself ask.

"I came to find you," said Sanat Ji Mani, as if the answer were obvious.

"For what reason?" Rustam Iniattir felt suddenly bold.

"Because I hope you and I might work together," said Sanat Ji Mani. He made a deep, reverential bow to the circular altar. "This may not be the place to talk of such matters, but I hope you will not refuse to deal with me because I sought you out in this shrine."

Reassured, Rustam Iniattir regarded Sanat Ji Mani with interest. "Why do you say this? You came here; it was your decision to come here."

"Yes, so you would know I am seeking you out in good faith. In another place, you might dismiss me, but here, you may be willing to hear me out." He had a quick smile that was gone before Rustam Iniattir was certain he had seen it.

"You have shown you understand my ways, at least a little. As to the rest, we shall see," said Rustam Iniattir, his manner more forceful than before. "Tell me what you want me to hear and then leave me to finish my devotions."

"Of course; I did not intend to disturb you, but I could think of no other means of meeting with you that would not put one of us at a disadvantage," said Sanat Ji Mani, and took a moment to be silent before saying anything more to Rustam Iniattir. "I have no desire to offend you, but I must tell you I have learned something of your business dealings."

Rustam Iniattir blinked at the effrontery. "How could you have done this? And why?"

"Your associates were willing to part with information in exchange for gold and silver," said Sanat Ji Mani without apology. "I am sorry I had to resort to such methods, for it may distress you and your business partners, but I am concerned that there may not be enough time to approach you through more usual channels, you and I being foreigners in Delhi, and our opportunities restricted on that account."

"There is much in what you say," Rustam Iniattir allowed neutrally, reserving judgment.

"Also, I have in the past dealt with one of your people, and he has disposed me kindly to you," Sanat Ji Mani said, remembering Kozrozd and his True Death in the Roman arena, more than thirteen centuries ago.

"Then I am grateful to my countryman," said Rustam Iniattir.

"I thank you for taking my meaning," said Sanat Ji Mani, then went on more briskly. "You are known to have contacts from here to Shiraz, to Trebizond, to Antioch."

"Not that that is anything to boast of," said Rustam Iniattir, not wanting to appear proud in this place where his God was worshiped.

Sanat Ji Mani nodded his comprehension. "Perhaps not, but there are many who are not so fortunate, or far-sighted. Nor do many merchants use the good sense you have shown in your dealings with these cities, which has led me to suppose you might be inclined to join in the venture I seek to propose. In these uncertain times, I would like to offer you the means to expand those contacts, to broaden your trading, and your position. I am sure you would find such opportunity advantageous, as would I." He paused. "I have jewels and gold. I have horses and mules and camels. And I have ships at Cambay, Surat, and Chaul. You need not fear I would not offer to undertake my portion of the cost of such an enterprise. I can afford to sponsor the enlargement I propose without imposing upon you for a single sequin of yours. You may come to my house and see for yourself that this is true. I am in the Foreigners' Quarter of the city, as you are, in the Street of Brass Lanterns. Mine is the last house before the wall, and it bears my sigil above the door." He indicated the fibula at his neck.

"If you have so much, why do you come to me?" Rustam Iniattir asked, his suspicions aroused.

"Because I do not think the Sultan-or more precisely, the Sultan's deputies-would grant me the license to broaden my business on my own, being that I am a foreigner from the West and the only one of my ... blood here in Delhi. They fear I would undertake to cheat them of the taxes and duties they impose, having nothing to lose but my own liberty. Firuz Ihbal has said that I cannot be trusted to follow the law since I have no one of my own kind who could be held as hostage. Of course, he did not put it quite so bluntly. He said I would have to ally myself with those whose families live here with them." He saw Rustam Iniattir nod knowingly and went on, "You are part of a community, and the Sultan's men believe that will keep you compliant with the law." Sanat Ji Mani paused. "I would rather spend my wealth on business than on bribes. Surely you understand?"

"I will consider this," said Rustam Iniattir, admitting to himself that Sanat Ji Mani had made a very good point.

"How long will you want to make up your mind?" Sanat Ji Mani asked politely. "I will accommodate your request."

"I ... I am not sure," said Rustam Iniattir, thinking this was much too abrupt. "I shall consider what you have told me, and then, if I have any questions, I will visit you in your house on the Street of Brass Lanterns, where you may expand on what you have said here. After such a conversation-if we have one-I will reach my decision."

"Of course. You will be welcome at any time," said Sanat Ji Mani. "I trust you will make inquiries about my dealings with others. I encourage you to do this, for I have done the same about you, and you should have as much information on me as you can acquire before you commit yourself and your fortune to any new proposition. There are merchants who can provide a report of me that is without undue bias. They will tell you what you want to know." He achieved another of his fleeting smiles. "I have a servant-Rojire he is called-who will admit you to my house at any hour you call."

"Then I will ask for him when I come. He will know that I am to see you?" Now that the worst of his fright had gone, Rustam Iniattir was beginning to be curious about this Sanat Ji Mani, who seemed so much more a foreigner than he, a Parsi, was.

"Yes. He is a prince among servants, and always knows what is wanted." Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "If I do not hear from you in some fashion in six weeks, I will take it as a sign that you are not interested in any proposal I may have to make, and I will look elsewhere for a partner-reluctantly, I assure you."

"Six weeks is not very long," said Rustam Iniattir, somewhat alarmed at so stringent a limit.

"No, it is not," Sanat Ji Mani agreed. "But I know that Timur-i moves quickly and trade-routes that are safe today may be useless tomorrow."

"Of course," said Rustam Iniattir, shaken by the mention of Timur-i. "He is the very soul of darkness, that one."

"So he is," Sanat Ji Mani agreed. "But you would not deny that he is a danger to everyone who trades beyond the walls of Delhi."

"Yes. The more so now the Sultan is away, shoring up his fortresses, and leaving Delhi to his many deputies, most of whom are as rapacious as bandits, Firuz Ihbal being the first among many." There was a note of anger in his voice now, and a petulance that revealed the frustration the Persian merchant felt. "We Parsi must look to hired fighters to protect our caravans, and more often than not, those very fighters are also robbers, and steal what they were hired to protect."

"True enough," said Sanat Ji Mani, who had experience of such predation.

"So you will propose a way to protect a caravan from its guards?" He was being sarcastic now, but he made no apology for it.

"I will propose many things, if you are interested in what I might offer to you. And I will listen to any suggestions you may put to me," Sanat Ji Mani said this with a composure far more persuasive than enthusiasm would have been.

Rustam Iniattir stared at the foreigner. "I believe you will," he said at last, his reluctance to bargain with someone unknown to him finally giving way to a hope of opportunity. "Yes. I will give this proposition my first consideration, and I will send you word if I decide to pursue the matter. Six weeks is a short time, but it should be sufficient for me to make inquiries and to have answers." He looked up into the echoing dark. "You have what you have come for."

"That I do, and I will not tarry; you have been kindness itself to listen to me. May your God of Light show you favor for that." His face vanished as he stepped back into the gloom of the shrine, and turned away; there was the sharp report of his steps, which reverberated through the shrine and faded to the slough of the wind.

Rustam Iniattir stood still, trying to assess what had just happened to him; he was more baffled than alarmed, and that alone eased his concerns. He tried to resume his devotions, but he discovered more questions burgeoning in his mind, and they became a clamor beyond the reach of prayer. Annoyed, Rustam Iniattir finished his ritual abruptly and went out of the shrine into the blue of dusk, his thoughts buzzing with possibilities. As he made his way back to the Persian part of the Foreigners' Quarter of the city, he looked about him for any sign of Sanat Ji Mani, for he could not rid himself of the notion that the stranger might be following him, his dark garments blending with the night. Although he reached his house without incident, the sensation of being watched remained with him for some time.

It was not Sanat Ji Mani who had followed Rustam Iniattir from the shrine, but Josha Dar, a creature of the Sultan's cousin Balban Ihbal, whose task it was to watch foreign merchants and to report anything they did that might have consequences for the Sultan and his many deputies. Josha Dar had been shadowing Rustam Iniattir for six days, as diligent and ruthless as a rat, and was hoping his vigilance had finally been rewarded. When he was satisfied that Rustam Iniattir was in for the night, he went along to the gorgeous sprawl of the Sultan's palace, made his way past those petitioners who waited in their patient lines night and day for the chance to address the deputies. He found the path through the maze of corridors to the inner court of the west wing, and sought out Balban Ihbal in his apartments.

"It's you," said Balban Ihbal as Josha Dar saluted him with a fine, subservient air.

"Yes, Great Lord, it is I," said Josha Dar. He tried to present himself well; his small, bony body was held straight as a soldier's, and his weathered face was set in proper lines.

"Do you have anything for me?" He put aside a cup of aromatic tea and regarded Josha Dar with the expression of one severely tested. In the glow of a hundred lamps, Balban Ihbal, and all his surroundings, were touched with gilded light that enhanced the opulence of the room and its occupant: he was wearing brocaded silk the color of persimmons, and the ornamental braid on the front of the kaftan was shining gold. His turban was white but ornamented with a spray of Chinese pheasant feathers, each as costly as pearls. There were rings on his fingers and a golden cuff on his wrist, all gleaming in the luster of the lamps.

"I have been following the Parsi merchant Rustam Iniattir-" Josha Dar began, only to be interrupted.

"For six days now," Balban Ihbal finished for him. "What have you learned?"

"That he had a secret meeting tonight," said Josha Dar as if revealing a monumental crime. He raised his scrawny arms as if to demonstrate the enormity of his discovery.

"Where?" asked Balban Ihbal, not quite interested.

"At the Parsi shrine. You know, the cave in the old walls?" Josha Dar took a deep breath. "You cannot know what this place is like. The sons of Islam do not bow to flames."

"No; we bow to Mecca," said Balban Ihbal; he was not eager to hear about the false religion of the Parsi. "Yes, I know the shrine you speak of."

"Well," said Josha Dar, trying to recover his dramatic thrust, "I did not enter the place, but I saw another who did."

"And who was that?" Balban Ihbal was rapidly becoming annoyed with his spy, and told him, "If you have nothing significant to report to me, say so and go."

"But I do," said Josha Dar, and hurried on, "The foreigner, Sanat Ji Mani, entered the shrine shortly after Rustam Iniattir did."

"Perhaps he, too, is a follower of Zarathustra," said Balban Ihbal, taking another sip of tea. "There are a number of such men in Delhi, and they are all foreigners."

"I think not." Josha Dar held up his hand. "Followers of Zarathustra wear white when they go into their shrine. Sanat Ji Mani was wearing black."

"Such is his custom," said Balban Ihbal, dismissing the revelation. "My cousin, Firuz Ihbal, has said that Sanat Ji Mani always dresses in black garments."

"Perhaps he does," said Josha Dar. "But he is not one of the Parsi. You and I know that he comes from mountains to the north and west of Persia, beyond Constantinople."

"So I am told," said Balban Ihbal. "Yet it is possible that he is one who worships with them. Many of those who follow the Prophet-may he receive joy forever-are unlike those of our family. The Tughluq clan is not the only clan to embrace the True Religion. There are many, from China to Spain, who praise Allah. It may be that Sanat Ji Mani is one of other followers of Zarathustra."

"I do not think so," said Josha Dar, seeing his opportunity evaporating as he spoke.

"Well, you may be right," Balban Ihbal allowed. "In which case, what was the reason that Sanat Ji Mani went to the shrine?"

"To talk with Rustam Iniattir," said Josha Dar, his exasperation revealed in the blunt tone he used.

"About what?" asked Balban Ihbal. "If you did not hear them, say so."

"I heard ... part of it," Josha Dar said, not wanting to be contradicted. "It was a strange discussion, and the shrine echoes so."

Balban Ihbal pulled at his lower lip. "What did they say?"

"They spoke of trade-routes," said Josha Dar. "Sanat Ji Mani suggested they could share their work." He coughed. "At least, that is what it seemed he did."

"And you do not know what more was offered, or if anything else was offered." He scowled. "Josha Dar, you have not yet done as I hoped you would do."

"I have persisted," said Josha Dar, turning pale beneath his walnut-colored skin.

"Not sufficiently," said Balban Ihbal. "I begin to wonder if I was wise in entrusting so much to you."

"You will be satisfied with my efforts," said Josha Dar as belligerently as he dared. "I will strive to do all you have asked of me, and more. I have not yet finished with Rustam Iniattir, and I will not rest while you have work for me."

"Yes, yes," said Balban Ihbal, sounding slightly bored. "You have told me this on many occasions. Thus far you have done well enough, I suppose. I see no harm in your continuing your observations." He sighed. "Follow the Parsi for a while yet, to find out what he is undertaking, and with whom. We cannot have the foreigners of this city sending messages to Timur-i Lenkh, in the hope of reward for their treachery."

"Do you think that Rustam Iniattir would do such a thing?" Josha Dar asked, shocked at the suggestion.

"He is a Parsi. He follows Zarathustra. Who knows what he might do?" Balban Ihbal shook his head. "I cannot sit by and let foreigners bring disaster on this city."

"No, of course not," said Josha Dar, his voice dropping to a strangled whisper. "What do you require of me?"

"What you have been doing," said Balban Ihbal. "You have been useful to me." It was a grudging concession, but it brought a smile to Josha Dar's face. "If you continue to be, then I will reward you. If you do not, then I will dismiss you."

Josha Dar knew that dismissal meant exile as well, for he did not follow the Prophet, and was considered outside his caste because his father had sired him on an Untouchable woman. He lowered his eyes, trying to express his gratitude and dedication to Balban Ihbal. "Tell me what you want, Great Lord, and I will hasten to do it."

"I have told you what I want. If you can prove that the Parsi are aiding the agents of Timur-i, then bring it to me at once. If you cannot prove it, then let me know it so that I may look elsewhere for enemies of the Sultan." Balban Ihbal took another sip of tea.

"And Sanat Ji Mani? Should I watch him, too? He may be part of any scheme the Parsi is fomenting." Josha Dar did his best not to sound eager, but he envisioned more success in finding hidden enemies if he pursued more than Rustam Iniattir.

"If he and the Parsi meet again, perhaps. Until then, confine your work to Rustam Iniattir." Balban Ihbal finished his tea and made a flicking gesture with his right hand. "You need not linger."

"But, Great Lord," said Josha Dar, not quite whining, "I have not eaten today. Surely you will spare a handful of chickpeas or a cup of lentils for your servant?"

Balban Ihbal sighed again. "Very well. Stop at the kitchen and say that you may have two measures of lentils and a round of flat-bread." He cocked his head as he reached into the tooled leather wallet that hung from his sash. "Here is money. Make it last four days. I will not receive you again until then."

Josha Dar took the coins so hastily that they seemed to vanish by magic. "You are all magnanimity, Great Lord."

"I am a practical man," said Balban Ihbal, as if the two were the same thing. "I will do what I must to protect Delhi and the Sultan."

"And I will be pleased to serve you in that," said Josha Dar, bending over at the waist as he backed out of the presence of the Sultan's cousin. Once in the corridor, he raised his arm to send the slaves who had gathered near the door scattering; he had no intention of providing any of them with fuel for their fires of gossip. He went along to the kitchens and sought out a slave he knew named Maras. He relayed Balban Ihbal's orders, adding an onion and a cup of soup to the menu. "I will drink the soup here and take the rest with me."

"Balban Ihbal is a generous man," said Maras in a tone that made it impossible to guess if he were sincere or sarcastic. He had been a slave all his life, and for most of those twenty-nine years confined to the kitchen, which had earned him a sizable girth and the belief he would not be sold as long as his skills were good.

"That he is, that he is," Josha Dar exclaimed, as if he might be overheard. "He is a most worthy deputy to the Sultan."

"As are they all," said Maras as he ladled out some cold soup; it was redolent of turmeric and cumin.

"Delicious," said Josha Dar, drinking eagerly and chewing the bits of lamb in the soup with gusto. "The Sultan keeps an excellent kitchen."

"He is Sultan," said Maras. "And whether he is here or elsewhere, he must maintain his household to his standard." Maras went to take a round of flat-bread from the shelf where breads were stored. He came back to Josha Dar with the bread in his hands. "Shall I put the lentils in this?"

"No; put them in this." He offered his drinking cup.

"As you wish," said Maras. "You will be able to carry it when you leave?"

"I will manage," said Josha Dar, anticipating his feast. "I will not take them far."

"Since it is night, I should think not," said Maras as he filled the drinking cup with stewed lentils. "This is no time to be abroad."

"I have a place of my own," said Josha Dar, volunteering no more than that.

"Then you are a fortunate man," said Maras in his usual flat tone.

"May the gods witness my gratitude." It was difficult not to feel satisfied with himself after such an evening as this.

Maras shook his head in warning. "In this palace there is only Allah."

"Then I will thank Allah," said Josha Dar. "Whatever is most suitable, and whichever god has favored me, I am thankful."

Maras smiled with lupine ferocity. "Do not let Balban Ihbal hear you say that, or you will not have so much as a grain of salt from him again."

"But he will not hear me, unless you tell him what I have said. If you do, I will deny it, and in the end, Balban Ihbal will have to choose which of us to believe." He took his drinking cup and reached for the bread with his left hand.

Maras drew back in disgust. "You should not use that hand to touch food."

"I wash six times a day. I have no reason not to use both hands," Josha Dar countered, and kept his left hand extended.

Muttering something about casteless fools, Maras gave him the bread. "What of the onion?"

"Put it in my mouth. I will hold it with my teeth," said Josha Dar, and grinned.

Shrugging, Maras selected a large yellow onion, pulled the dry skins off it, and held it out for Josha Dar to bite. "There you are," he said as Josha Dar's teeth sank into the pungent bulb.

Josha Dar nodded and said something incoherent around the onion, then turned and left the kitchens, bound for the warren of streets around the rear of the palace. He went at a steady pace to his own niche in the old walls of the city, and slipped into the rocky alcove. He had a make-shift bed in the farthest corner of the place, and a single rush-lamp set on a ledge away from the entrance. It was a relatively safe place, one he had occupied for almost a year, and he regarded it as much his home as any place he had been in all his life. He sat down on his bed and began to eat, relishing his meal as a triumph over Balban Ihbal more than the savor of the food itself. As he ate, he decided he would watch Sanat Ji Mani as well as Rustam Iniattir, in the hope that one of them would do something that would bring him rewards and riches beyond his imagination.

Text of a letter from Firuz Ihbal bin Tughluq to Mahmud bin Ghurid.

In the name of Allah, the All-Merciful and All-Seeing, the peace be on you, Mahmud bin Ghurid, and upon your House from generation to generation.

As Deputy Procurer to the Army, I send you word to ask what is needed to reinforce our troops against any attack that may be made against the city of Delhi. In the absence of the Sultan-may Allah show him favor forever-I must ask for your assessment of needs so that we may prepare to keep this city safe from all invaders.

It will be necessary for you to stipulate all requirements, from the greatest to the least, so that no part of the army will falter or fail due to lack of supplies or other essentials. Do not stint for fear of cost, as that may prove a false economy at best. Do not think to gain favor by claiming greater readiness than is actually the case, for such assurances will be hollow in the face of a prepared enemy.

You must also submit a count of soldiers, their arms and their skills, for my scrutiny. We have men who are past their best years of service, and we must now replace them or suffer the consequences. Again, do not hesitate to stipulate what you know to be accurate. Such prevarication in this context would be commensurate to speaking a lie with your hand on the Qran. No follower of the Prophet with hope of Paradise would do such a disgraceful thing; it would avail the Sultan nothing of worth to heed such deception.

I will expect your accounting in a month's time. Surely that is sufficient for the task I have set you. If you fail to do as I have ordered, you will be blinded and left to beg, and a more worthy successor shall complete what you failed to do. Acquit this labor well, and the Sultan shall hear praise of you from my lips. To this I set my hand and swear to uphold,

Firuz Ihbal bin Tughluq

Deputy Procurer for the Sultan's Army at Delhi