A Feast In Exile

Although his hair was rust-colored and his eyes grey-green, the pilgrim was from the vast grasslands and desert in the far west of China; his staff and begging-bowl were his only belongings, his one tattered robe his only clothing; his feet were misshapen from his arduous walking. Sunburn had made his skin a ruddy-brown and toughened it to the texture of leather. He held out his bowl to Rustam Iniattir and asked-in a fairly good version of the local dialect-for water and a handful of rice or lentils. "For the Buddha. I ask for the Buddha."

Rustam Iniattir shook his head. "I am not a follower of the Buddha," he said, preparing to leave his house and enter the busy, mid-morning bustle of the streets; he tried to shrug past the pilgrim only to have the man sink down at his feet.

"No. You are Parsi. You follow Zarathustra," said the pilgrim in a thread of a voice. "I have met your caravan in my travels." He ducked his head. "I was told you are a worthy man, that you would not turn a pilgrim from your door."

"My slaves will give you lentils, and water, if you knock on the sidegate," said Rustam Iniattir, still attempting to leave.

The pilgrim pulled himself a short way, then moaned as he scraped his left foot on the dusty step; a trail of blood appeared through the thick calluses of his bare sole. He huddled in shame, not looking at Rustam Iniattir. "In the Buddha's name, I thank you for your charity." It was the usual acknowledgment of alms, and ordinarily Rustam Iniattir would have heard it and gone on his way, but the pain in the pilgrim's every lineament held his attention.

"What happened to your foot?" he asked, pausing to look down at the pilgrim.

"In the mountains between Khotan and Lahore, I ... was injured. Occasionally it distracts me from my purpose." He stared at Rustam Iniattir. "It has taught me the truth of Followers of the Buddha should learn to endure all discomforts: heat, cold, hunger, thirst, and pain." He brought his features back under control. "I am all right. I must atone for my lapse."

"It might be better to have that foot examined and treated," said Rustam Iniattir. "You could easily be made ill by it."

"That is dharma," said the pilgrim, getting onto his knees and pulling himself up his walking staff.

"You are prepared to let it kill you?" Rustam Iniattir asked, incredulity making his voice rise. "I did not know the Buddha expected such immolation from his followers." He did not want this pilgrim to come to harm in front of his house, for that could result in questions being asked by those in authority that would not redound to his advantage; the Sultan's deputies would exact a high price for such a misfortune.

The pilgrim shrugged. "I take what the world sends me, that I may become indifferent to it, as the Buddha was in His Compassion."

"And do you not accept compassion from anyone?" His voice sharpened as the possibilities of the situation became more obvious to him. "You are suffering, little as you want to admit it. You deny others the chance to show their compassion so that you may perfect yourself? Would you reserve Enlightenment for yourself alone? You will take alms but nothing more?" Rustam Iniattir reached out to the pilgrim and helped him to stand, noticing as he did that the man's skin was very hot; he was glad now that he had listened to his aunt's husband discourse on the precepts of the Buddha. "You are suffering, and there can be an end to it. You need not deny your hurt because it is from the world. The Buddha does not require that you embrace infection to show you are not moved by the needs of the flesh; I know that much of his teaching." He paused, and continued in a resigned tone, not quite knowing why he bothered, but unable to leave the pilgrim to his begging and his fever, "I am acquainted with a man who is most capable with medicaments. Let me take you to him so he can treat you, that you may continue your pilgrimage. He will give you ease for your hurts." He felt puzzled with himself, but he remembered that Zarathustra had taught it was a sign of belief to aid those in need; it would be a worthy act, and it would get this strange pilgrim away from his house. "I will take you to him."

The pilgrim shook his head. "I should master this."

"And so you shall, once it has been treated. You are not an old man, pilgrim, and you should not throw your life away. To die tranquilly in old age is a high achievement, but to surrender your life to stubbornness is not. If you have too much pride to be healed ..." He left the rest unspoken, for he knew enough of Buddhist teaching to suppose the pilgrim would be shocked by such an accusation.

The pilgrim nodded, his face unable to conceal the chagrin he felt. "I will go with you." He steadied himself with his staff. "But I seek nothing but the end of desire."

"Certainly," said Rustam Iniattir. "I will walk slowly." He stepped into the stream of people on the street, his attention on the pilgrim; he did not see Josha Dar emerge from behind a stack of cotton bales to go after them.

"Your caravan was bound for Herat. The leader said he is your cousin," said the pilgrim, as if he needed to explain more thoroughly why he came to Rustam Iniattir.

"That he is-the son of my father's sister," said Rustam Iniattir. Most of the leaders of his caravans were his relatives, either by blood or by marriage; it was one of the few ways he could ensure honesty in his distant transactions.

"A good man," said the pilgrim, "as far as the world goes."

"That he is," said Rustam Iniattir, not wanting to debate with this stranger the merits of worldly ambitions and success, for he knew from experience with his aunt's husband that such discussions led nowhere, serving only to frustrate all who participated in them. As he reached the corner of a broad central street, he asked the pilgrim, "Do you have a name, pilgrim? What shall I call you?"

"I am from Kua-chou in Shensi, and I am called Lum." He spoke flatly, as if he did not like imparting so much.

"Lum is your family name, or your personal name?" asked Rustam Iniattir, who had had dealings with the Chinese before and took pride in knowing some of their traditions.

"Lum is my personal name. I no longer have a family name," said the pilgrim, and did not elaborate.

"Lum from Kua-chou in Shensi it is, then," said Rustam Iniattir as he stood aside for three vile-smelling camels to pass; he made sure Lum was right behind him. "Why should you come into Delhi, Lum?"

"To see the shrines to the Buddha; I have vowed to visit all the places holy to the Buddha that I can before I cast off this body, for the sake of my soul and the protection of my family. Delhi has a shrine I wish to see. I had learned that the Mui were here," he went on, using the Chinese word for Muslims, "but I know them from before. We see many of them, as we see the Black-Haired, in Kua-chou. We have been there longer than any of them, though we are few and they are vast in their numbers." He held his staff more tightly.

"Good enough," said Rustam Iniattir, resuming his slow pace now the camels were by them, their bells tinkling as they stalked through the market-square at the other end of the street. "It isn't far to the house we seek, and the man who will help you; you will soon see for yourself how much skill he has in treating injuries," he went on. "He, too, is a foreigner, and must live in this quarter of the city."

Lum nodded. "It is the way." He was managing to walk fairly easily now, his pace steady for all its sluggishness; behind them Josha Dar slipped along from door to door, never taking his eyes from the two. He grinned in anticipation of what he would report that evening, for surely he would deserve a reward for his diligence.

At the entrance to the Street of the Brass Lanterns, Rustam Iniattir paused once again so that Lum could rest. "Almost there," he said, still perplexed with himself for the help he was extending to this unlikely pilgrim from China. Perhaps, he told himself, Sanat Ji Mani would understand his actions and explain them to him.

"Your acquaintance is wealthy," said Lum with suspicion as he peered down the street, his eyes narrowed to slits at the finery he saw around him. "These are very fine houses."

"It seems he is," Rustam Iniattir agreed carefully.

"Yet he will tend to a pilgrim?" Lum was dubious and reluctant to go on.

"That you will learn when you speak to him," said Rustam Iniattir, making this a challenge. "He has tended to others before you."

"If he receives me at all, he may send me away," said Lum. "But I will go with you to his house."

Rustam Iniattir did not know what to say in response to this. He folded his arms and very nearly left Lum where he stood. Then he mastered his annoyance and led the pilgrim forward again.

Garuda opened the door to the urgent summons of the clapper; he peered out at the Parsi and sighed. "My master is in his library. He is busy today." Little as he wanted to admit Rustam Iniattir and his companion, Garuda did not have the authority to refuse them entry; he opened the door with an air of condescension that would have earned him a rebuke had Sanat Ji Mani or Rojire seen him; he was a native of Delhi, he reminded himself, and this was his city where foreigners had to be tolerated.

"Then go tell him Rustam Iniattir is come with a pilgrim in need of his help," was the crisp response.

"If you insist," said Garuda. "But he may not wish to be disturbed."

"He will decide that for himself when you inform him," said Rustam Iniattir patiently, used to the attitude of Indian servants with foreign masters.

"You will wait here," said Garuda, and vanished into the interior of the splendid house.

"This is not the abode of a humble man," said Lum.

"It is the home of a wealthy one, in any case," said Rustam Iniattir. The small courtyard where Rustam Iniattir and Lum waited was decorated with potted plants and a number of small statues, some of familiar gods, some of unknown ones. Lum noticed a Teaching Buddha set in the shade of a flowering bush, and touched his hands together as he bowed to it; Rustam Iniattir turned away, knowing it was rude to watch a man at worship.

"My master," said Garuda as he returned, "will see you in his study. If you will follow me?"

Knowing it was useless to remind Garuda that he knew the way, Rustam Iniattir touched Lum on the shoulder. "We will go with this servant."

Lum only nodded and moved along behind Garuda. He kept his gaze steadily ahead, so that he would not be caught up in the elegance around him, a sign of worldliness that would compromise his dedication to asceticism and the Buddha. He almost stumbled going down a shallow flight of stairs; he gave a little cry of pain and dismay, saying immediately, "It is nothing."

"I think perhaps you have come here just in time," said Rustam Iniattir, who, aware now of how feverish Lum was, made no attempt at concealing his alarm. He stopped at the door where Garuda paused; Rustam Iniattir scratched on the wood and was relieved when he heard the foreigner call, "Enter," from within.

"When you are leaving, summon me," said Garuda as he withdrew farther along the hall.

"That I will," said Rustam Iniattir as he opened the door and stood aside for Lum to precede him.

Sanat Ji Mani, in a Persian kandys of fine black linen and loose Persian trousers of heavy dark-red cotton, was seated at a rosewood table, four antique scrolls lying open before him. A shaded window let in the perfume of blossoms, and the subdued light was pleasant for the eyes. He rose as he took stock of the pilgrim, then turned to Rustam Iniattir. "You have brought someone to me?"

"I have. He was begging in front of my house. He is injured. I thought it would be best to put him in your care," said Rustam Iniattir, his tone uncertain as he stayed in the doorway. "I could not ignore him. It is not our way." He said this last pointedly, for the custom of the worshipers of Shiva and the rest of the pantheon of Brahmin gods were disinclined to take an active part in the lives of any strangers.

"You have done well, Rustam Iniattir, and I thank you," said Sanat Ji Mani with a sincerity that took the Parsi aback.

"How can you be grateful?" Rustam Iniattir inquired, more baffled than ever.

"Do you wish to treat me?" Lum asked at the same moment, incredulously.

Nodding, Sanat Ji Mani approached Lum. "You will need treatment if you are to continue your journey. You are a pilgrim, I see from your staff and gourd, and by the look of you, you come from the western reaches of China."

Lum blinked in surprise. "I am from Shensi, the fortress-town of Kua-chou."

"Near the end of the Great Wall, is it not," Sanat Ji Mani said, looking intently at the newcomer. "I was there once, many years ago." He did not mention that those years were reckoned in centuries, or that, when he was there, the world was in disarray and Kua-chou was under siege and in the grip of famine.

"Yes," said Lum, making an effort not to be astonished.

"Not many there are dedicated to the Buddha," said Sanat Ji Mani conversationally. "You must have come by your faith in an unusual way."

Lum went silent at once; he turned away from Sanat Ji Mani, dismay and rebuke in his weathered visage. "How can you treat my foot?" His blank face made it plain he would say nothing more about himself.

"It depends on what is wrong with it," said Sanat Ji Mani as if unaware of the state of the pilgrim's mind.

"Is there any reason I should remain?" Rustam Iniattir asked abruptly.

"Not on my account," said Sanat Ji Mani. "If there is something more you would like to discuss with Lum, it might be best to come back before sundown. He should be feeling better by then."

"Well?" Rustam Iniattir said to Lum. "Shall I return?"

"If you want to know more of your kinsman who told me to seek you out," said Lum, the tone of his voice revealing much more than the words he spoke. "Otherwise, you need not concern yourself with me."

"I think it would be a solace to you and to Lum if you see him improved," said Sanat Ji Mani, aware of how much curiosity the Parsi possessed, and how alone the Chinese pilgrim felt.

"Solace. Yes," said Rustam Iniattir, seizing on this acceptable excuse and looking over at Lum. "I will come again, when I go to pray."

"It is as you wish," said Lum with studied indifference.

Rustam Iniattir made a formal gesture of departure and stepped out of the study, to find Garuda waiting for him. "Well, I might have anticipated this: you are named for a mighty bird, and you perch everywhere, and you seek to see everything," he said to the under-steward, careful not to make his observation too comminatory.

"My father was devoted to Vishnu," said Garuda. "He named me to honor the god's mount." He pointed his finger at Rustam Iniattir, something he would not do had the Parsi been of his own people. "You do not honor the gods."

"We honor Zarathustra's teachings," said Rustam Iniattir, and began to stride down the corridor. "You have your gods, I have mine. And your master has his." This last reminder was intended to remind Garuda of his position in the household, and it succeeded.

"I meant nothing against you, O Guest of My Master," Garuda said, lowering his eyes and assuming a self-effacing manner. As they reached the garden-courtyard, Garuda went directly to the outer door and held it open for Rustam Iniattir. "May you go in safety."

"May your gods show you favor," said Rustam Iniattir, giving more attention to this servant than he would have done any member of his own household. With a slight inclination of his head, he departed, stepping out into the street with a frown of displeasure marring his features; he still wondered if his concern for the pilgrim Lum had sprung from the altruism of Zarathustra's teaching, or from some less worthy impulse. He would have to return to his shrine to appeal to Ormazd to reveal to him what had caused him to extend his help to so unlikely a man as Lum. He was so preoccupied that he was unaware of Josha Dar as he joined the people in the street.

In the house of Sanat Ji Mani, Lum was not yet at his ease. He clung to his staff and listened skeptically to what the black-clad foreigner was saying. "It is not right that I should rid myself of suffering while the world suffers so much," he declared, interrupting Sanat Ji Mani's explanation of what might be done for him.

Sanat Ji Mani shook his head once. "You do not think that the Buddha expects you to embrace your ailments; that would be inappropriate, and self-indulgent. Did not the Buddha teach that to refuse the antidote to poison is an embracing of ignorance and suffering? You have been poisoned by your wound and now you have the opportunity to recover. The Buddha would not encourage you to forgo it."

"You cannnot know the Holy Texts." Lum was apprehensive now, as if he had to prevent Sanat Ji Mani from examining him; better not to know what injury he had sustained than to be helped by this foreign man.

"I know more Holy Texts than you can imagine," said Sanat Ji Mani with a note of weariness in his voice that caught Lum's attention. "So, yes: I know the Buddha did not encourage his followers to seek suffering, or to-"

"Do not preach my faith to me," said Lum sharply.

Sanat Ji Mani shook his head. "You are afraid, and fear is born of illusion, according to your Holy Texts. I believe the Buddha taught that a man's inner mind is more his enemy than any external foe; you have allied yourself against your body's health, and that is not a sign of virtue, but of irresponsibility."

Lum stared down at his foot as if he wanted to be able to disown it. "It should not impose so much."

"Bodies are like that; they impose," said Sanat Ji Mani as gently as he could. "Come with me, and we will deal with this as quickly as possible."

"Are you certain you can heal me?" Lum wanted to know before he moved.

"I am certain I can treat you. Your healing is as much up to you as to my medicaments," Sanat Ji Mani replied. "It may be that you can improve on your own, but I doubt it."

"Why do you say that?" Lum asked, remaining where he stood.

"Because your flesh smells of inner decay; it is not strong yet, so you may still be able to recover from it," said Sanat Ji Mani in a level voice. "Those of my blood are sensitive to such odors. Many another might not recognize it, but I have known that scent of old." As he said it, a nimiety of memories came back to him of the sick, the wounded, the dying: disease, war, famine, flood, fire, devastation-he had seen them for over three millennia and had never grown used to any of them. "If you have no treatment, you will surely die of that inner decay. It will get into your blood and that will be the end of you."

For a long moment Lum said nothing, and then he started toward the door. "I believe you. You may treat my foot, but you will do nothing beyond that. I do not wish to lose my simplicity."

"If your simplicity is genuine, you have nothing to fear; health will not imperil you," said Sanat Ji Mani, his words a bit brisker than they had been. He held the door and pointed toward the flight of stairs at the end of the hall. "Go to the next level. I will follow you."

Shrugging awkwardly as he steadied himself on his staff, Lum did as he was told; climbing the stairs proved more difficult than he had anticipated, for his balance was precarious, and pain slowed him down. Little as he wanted to admit it, the opportunity for treatment allowed him to admit how much discomfort he was in, and it troubled him. As he reached the top of the stairs, he stopped again. "Where should I go?"

"Fourth door on the right, the one with the brass latch," said Sanat Ji Mani. "You need not announce yourself; the room is empty."

"Very well." Lum stumped his way along to the door and pressed the latch. As the door swung open, he nearly fell.

Sanat Ji Mani was at his side at once, steadying him and supporting him across the floor to the bed set against an elaborate screen. "Lie down here," said Sanat Ji Mani, and then he called out "Rojire!"

Lum was just settling down on the bed, his staff set against the wall and his begging bowl on a shelf beside it, when a middle-aged servant in a short blue-grey kaftan came into the room. "My master?" If the sight of Lum surprised him, he made no sign of it.

"I need a vial of my sovereign remedy, clean bandages, a strong drawing poultice, a cleansing agent-the aloe-and-spikenard should do it-and a draught of syrup of poppies," said Sanat Ji Mani. "All that and a basin of hot water, along with my narrow knives, if you would, please." He looked down at Lum. "Perhaps later willow-bark tea, to bring down his fever and stop the worst of the swelling."

"As you wish," said Rojire, and withdrew.

"My manservant will not be long," said Sanat Ji Mani, going to examine Lum's feet. "Your injury to your left foot is damaging your right. You are pulling the sinews of your right foot in compensation for the injury to your left," he said as he looked them over. "How long ago did you injure the left, and how did you do it?"

"It was three or four weeks since it began to pain me. The hurt itself took place sometime before that," said Lum. "I was coming down the mountains to Lahore, and a long, thin spike went into my foot. I removed it easily enough, and washed out the dirt that built up on the drying blood. I supposed I needed to do little more than that; my soles are as tough as camels' feet." He caught his lower lip between his teeth, as if describing the event made his affliction worse. "In a few days, the hurt seemed gone, and I thought no more about it. Until I was on the road here, and it began to hurt once more, and the puncture opened."

"The ailment was inside your body, not outside," said Sanat Ji Mani as he laid his hand very softly on the infected foot. "It is hot."

"Yes," said Lum. "And my body has taken the heat." He said this reluctantly, a sense of shame going through him as intense as his fever. "It goes from my foot upward."

"Yes, it has," Sanat Ji Mani agreed grimly, wondering if the pilgrim's foot could be saved at all. "I hope it is not too deep in your body."

"I have allowed myself to be brought into the world, to be turned from my mission, and all for a spike in my foot." He licked his lips and said something in his own tongue, a dialect Sanat Ji Mani had heard but did not know.

"You have not erred, Lum," said Sanat Ji Mani as kindly as he could. "The world is full of spikes and thorns and stings."

"All the more reason not to be caught by them." He twisted in an effort to look at his feet, then lay back. "I strive to rid myself of all desire."

"Then do not desire to do yourself harm," Sanat Ji Mani recommended. He took a step back and studied Lum: the man was very ill, that much was obvious. There were faint, reddish lines leading from his foot up his ankle, a sure sign that the decay had taken hold. "I will clean out your wound and treat the flesh. You will have to remain here, off your feet, until the decay is stopped." He lowered his head. "I trust you will be willing to do what is best for your recuperation, though it is not how you have lived of late."

"If I improve I will decide," said Lum. "May I have some water? I am thirsty."

"Of course," said Sanat Ji Mani. "But just a very little bit now. I will give you a sleeping draught shortly, and when you waken, I will have a great flask of cold tea for you."

Lum was immediately suspicious. "Why should I have a sleeping draught?"

Sanat Ji Mani regarded him patiently. "I will have to draw the decay from your flesh. It will be painful, and you are likely to thrash around if you are not asleep. I will have enough to do to get the decay out of you without having to fight you in the process." He gave Lum a little time to consider this, then added, "You will have less done to you if you are asleep."

It was a while before Lum nodded. "All right. If it is what you must do, then I will consent." He closed his eyes as if experimenting with sleep. "How long will I sleep?"

"As long as necessary, I trust," said Sanat Ji Mani, and looked up as Rojire came into the room with a box in his arms.

"The basin of hot water is coming. Bohdil is bringing it." He put down the box and opened the top. "The servants are talking," he said in Roman vernacular.

"Yes," said Sanat Ji Mani so indifferently that Rojire was not sure he had understood.

"They are saying you have allowed a dying man into this house-a dying foreigner." Rojire saw that Lum was listening. "You know they dislike the omen."

"Let them say what they want," said Sanat Ji Mani, looking through the items in the box.

"I could forbid them," Rojire suggested.

"They would only talk the more, and outside these walls," Sanat Ji Mani told him as he took out the large vial of syrup of poppies. "Make a draught of this for Lum; I will need it in a short while," he went on in the local dialect. "He will need to sleep deeply."

"How deeply?" Rojire asked.

"Deeply enough to permit me to complete what I must do, and then to have a restorative time, so he may regain his strength." Sanat Ji Mani took out the bandages, setting them on a low table near the bed Lum occupied. "And boil my knives with stringent herbs after they are sharpened." It was a trick he had learned from the physicians with the Roman Legions, and he had never found reason to abandon the practice. "When they are ready, bring them to me on a fresh drying cloth."

"Do you want anything more from the kitchen?" Rojire asked.

"Yes. Tell them to make a combination of green and willow-bark teas, and cool it, for Lum to drink when he wakens." Sanat Ji Mani had his drawing poultice out, and he spoke to Lum. "I am going to apply this to your foot. It is very strong and you may find it uncomfortable, but, if you are able, remain lying on your back. If it becomes too unpleasant, tell me."

"You are going to use the poultice now?" Rojire stopped in the door.

"Yes. As soon as the basin of hot water is here so I can wash his foot and see how much of it the injury has corrupted." Sanat Ji Mani maintained his calm demeanor, though he was keenly aware of the difficulty ahead of him.

"And after you apply the poultice?" Rojire promted.

"When it has had time to work, I will see if the infection will drain; if it does not, I will open the wound so that it can be cleaned. Then I will dress his foot with my sovereign remedy and bandage it so that it has a chance to heal." He was aware that these questions were being asked for Lum's benefit, for Rojire had helped Sanat Ji Mani tend the sick and injured since Vespasianus ruled in Rome. "We will see how he goes for the night and in the morning we will decide how to proceed." He looked down at Lum. "You may have to rest for a day or two, but you may use that time for meditation." He knew any recovery would take much longer than a few days, but he did not want to add to Lum's distress.

Lum could not entirely conceal his alarm. "The Parsi is returning tonight," he reminded Sanat Ji Mani. "He will expect me to depart with him."

"I will explain matters to him," said Sanat Ji Mani, and turned as Bohdil scratched on the door. "The hot water comes." He went to open the door, astonishing Lum in doing such a humble task while Rojire was in the room to serve him. "Put it down on the floor at the foot of the bed."

Bohdil did as he was told, watching Lum out of the tail of his eye. "Is there anything more?" he asked hopefully.

"Rojire will go with you to the kitchen, and give you instructions," Sanat Ji Mani said as he took a soft cloth in his hand and sat on the floor at the foot of the bed where Lum lay. "I am sorry that this will be painful."

Lum could not keep from tightening his fists in anticipation. "I am ready. Do as you must."

Taking Bohdil by the elbow, Rojire guided him out of the room into the hallway and toward the back-stairs, leaving Sanat Ji Mani to begin his ministrations to the red-haired Chinese pilgrim.

Text of a report submitted to Murmar bin Tughluq, the Sultan's Minister of Taxes, Rents, and Revenues, by his cousin, Balban Ihbal bin Tughluq.

In the glorious Name of the One God Allah, the acknowledgment of the one True Faith, which is Islam, and in highest respect and devotion to our kinsman the Sultan, this brings the greetings and protestations of devotion to you, Murmar bin Tughluq, and to our family, on this, the shortest night of the year.

I have been compiling reports from various informants throughout the city, and in consultation with others of our family serving the Will of the Sultan, the substance of which I present to you now, as I will present the same to the Sultan-may Allah give him long life and many sons-at the first opportunity. I ask you to make note of the contents and to correct any error you may find in the material, so that all the information I provide to the Sultan-may his splendor increase from year to year-will be as useful as it may be, and garner us distinction among our kinsmen.

I have listened to the trader Mahannad of Meerut, who arrived not three days ago, and who has reported that there is fear that Timur-i Lenkh is moving again, and perhaps will come in this direction. If he does this, we will need to improve the number and quality of arms we have for the defense of this city. It is said that the speed of Timur-i's cavalry is swifter than demons can cross the sands, that his horses trot from dawn until sunset without slowing or tiring, so that his men go five or six times as far in a day as most cavalry does. This may be a lie, but we cannot afford to think it is, or to ignore the implication. I recommend we prepare for sudden attack, and to that end, you should increase customs taxes for all traders entering and leaving the city. You should also be alert to the presence of spies among those who enter and leave the city, for it is not unlikely that our enemies will seek to discover the extent of our preparedness as well as determine who among our population might be counted on to support their ambitions. The world is not so friendly a place that you can ignore the possibility that Timur-i, or some of his men, will not do their utmost to enter Delhi and seize its riches to their own ends. While I pray that this will never happen, I believe it is wisest to be prepared for such an eventuality.

I have a number of other informants among the population, and now I am being told by them that many of the foreigners living here fear for their safety, should there be an attack on Delhi. Many of the foreigners suppose that we will use them to buy the safety of our own people. I have instructed my informants to make note of which foreigners among us complain of this the most vociferously, so that we may be alert to their fright-mongering and so do our utmost to silence all of those who would lead the people to panic. One of my informants has said he has heard camel-drivers say they do not wish to come here for a while, for they have heard rumors from Trebizond to Shiraz that Timur-i is going to come here. Another informant has said that pilgrims coming here are afraid to linger, not wanting to become hostages in a war that could break out at any time. A third informant I have tells me that foreigners who have lived here for some time are beginning to worry that they may be made to bear the brunt of the cost of any war, and many are seeking to hoard or hide their wealth so they will not suffer too many losses at the hands of your officers.

I am posting more men in the markets, so that they may monitor all that is being said, as well as make note of the strangers who venture among us. I have the services of many good men, and the reports of others set to watch specific foreigners. I have made these various men loyal to me by my assurance of money for reliable information, and protection from any actions taken against them by the foreigners in question. I have detailed accounts for all these men, and if you are interested in what they contain, you have only to ask and I will provide you with faithful copies of their accounts, as I have already indicated. You will find, if you decide to review these accounts, that we will do well to be vigilant in our efforts to keep a close watch on the people of the city who speak against us, particularly those who are foreigners, and therefore more willing to sell their loyalty to other foreigners.

There is a party of pilgrims bound for Mecca who will leave at the next full moon, six days from now. I have decided to ask five of the men making this holy journey to become our eyes and ears in their travels, so that upon their return, we may have the advantage of their observations, the better to be ready against any attack that may come. It is altogether fitting that pilgrims do this for us, for they have the opportunity to travel without any fear that Timur-i would keep them from completing their pilgrimage; he does not interfere with pious men, for which we may thank Allah, the All-Merciful.

We will have to persuade the Sultan to consider coming here to make himself seen if we are going to be able to quiet the apprehension among the people of our city. My informants are convinced that one of the reasons there is so much unease is that the Sultan is busy tending to reinforcing his fortresses and is not paying heed to the protection of Delhi. While you and I understand that the fortresses are in more need of repair and reinforcement than Delhi is, our people do not know this, and they see his continuing absence as an indication of his own fear, and not a demonstration of his circumspection. I do not know if they will continue to accept the Sultan's deputies as carrying his authority while he is gone. If we cannot maintain our authority, it may be that a single rumor will be enough to throw the people into panic and leave us exposed to ruin as surely as if Timur-i and his cavalry were at our gates. You may believe that we are protected, but my informants convince me that this is not necessarily the case; I feel it incumbent upon me to inform you of this on behalf of our kinsman, the Sultan-may Allah favor and protect him and his people-so that we may continue to do his will.

Balban Ihbal bin Tughluq

carried by mute and deaf messenger for mutual protection