Sword of Empire Read online

  They certainly made a splendid display, and looked even better when Sitraj, having donned a similar uniform, left the elephant to mount a waiting horse and ride at their head, as apparently he would do all the way into the city.

  But he came to her that night.

  *

  Now they were travelling through undulating hill country, each rise being followed by a sudden delightful and fertile valley. Every hamlet was decorated with multi-coloured flags and cheering people. The next day, as the caravan topped a last range of low hills, the white walls of Sittapore rose out of a valley. The land here was several hundred feet above sea-level, with mountain ranges to either side rising higher yet. The hillsides were covered in wheat, and the whole jaghir gave an impression of peace and prosperity.

  Now, as they approached the walled city, invisible until one was within a few miles of it, hundreds of people emerged; young girls in pink saris strewed flowers before Laura’s elephant; young men blew bugles and clashed cymbals. Laura at first was afraid Kara might take fright, but Miljah who rode with her, assured her that he was used to this kind of noise.

  Today, Miljah produced from her clothes chest the most exquisite sari Laura had ever seen. It was deep green silk, trimmed with crimson, and looked wonderful against her fair skin. The crowds cheered loudly when they saw her.

  Laura had to keep smiling at them and waving, but she was desperately anxious to see her new home. Although situated in a valley surrounded by the hills, Sittapore was itself built on a small hill rising from the valley floor; a river flowed round the base of the hill. On top of this mound rose the white walls of the city, and within most of the houses were white. Kara made his way across the stream, by means of a ford, where more crowds of people were waiting to greet their new rani, and up a sloping road to the main gateway. This was quite medieval; in addition to castellated walls it contained a portcullis. Both the walls and the houses beyond were a mass of multi-coloured flags.

  ‘We’ll never fit under that,’ Laura gasped; the jagged teeth seemed to be hardly higher than Kara’s head.

  ‘No, indeed, Highness,’ Miljah agreed. ‘This is where we get down.’

  Kara had already been brought to a stop, his trunk almost touching the wall. Laura climbed down and found herself next to Sitraj.

  ‘Are you ready to take possession of your kingdom?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she smiled back.

  She was not the least nervous now. For the past two hours she had been cheered and made to feel like the queen she was. Laura Dean, the despised clerk’s daughter, with no dowry and precious little fortune, seemed to be someone else, in another world.

  Sitraj did not offer her his arm, but he walked at her side as they ascended the last few paces to the gateway itself. Here a small detachment of foot soldiers, wearing the Sittapore colours, presented arms. Beyond, the narrow street, thronged with people, continued to climb. For a moment Laura thought they might be mobbed, but although her new subjects pressed very close, and held out their hands to her, they were not the least aggressive. Their presence, however, added to the heat of the sun, which was intense, and she was assailed by such an overwhelming accumulation of odours, coconut oil, garlic, turmeric, coriander, that she felt almost faint. Sitraj immediately realised her difficulty, and now he did take her arm to assist her up the steep slope.

  Fortunately after another fifty yards the road evened out, and almost immediately debouched into a large square.

  Laura caught her breath. The glittering white palace was low, only two storeys high, but enormous and in every way magnificent. It was approached by a broad flight of stairs, which led into a huge hall. From its crenelated walls, on which the heads of the guards could be seen, multi-coloured flags waved in the wind.

  Laura could hardly wait to get up to that blessed shade, but first of all there was a guard-of-honour to be inspected. There were some two hundred men on parade, standing rigidly to attention, their sergeants armed with halberds, looking every bit as smart and military as any unit in the Company army. Sitraj led her along the ranks, but although, having watched inspections in Bombay, she felt that she should stop and speak to some of the men, she felt too faint and hot to do so; she only just managed to keep smiling until at last she was escorted up the stairs and into the cool of the house.

  Laura looked around her at the magnificent carved figures on the walls, the elephants and tigers, the gods and human beings, and men and women, naked and indulging in every form of erotic pleasure. How very different from English Bombay!

  *

  There were several men waiting to greet her.

  ‘My cousin, Prince Batraj,’ Sitraj said.

  Throughout Laura’s journey, indeed from the moment Sitraj had come into her life, she had been surrounded with nothing but smiling faces eager to please. Batraj’s face was certainly smiling, and it was a handsome face, perhaps even more handsome than Sitraj’s, with a strong jaw and big hooked nose, but his eyes were like pools of the deepest black night, and she had the strangest feeling that he was looking into her mind, and not liking what he saw.

  Her feeling of faintness returned, as the Prince bowed to her.

  ‘Greetings, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘I have always considered my cousin a fortunate man. Now I know he is the most fortunate man in the world.’

  ‘I...thank you,’ she managed.

  Sitraj, who had not appeared to notice anything strange in his cousin’s greeting to his wife, now introduced her to his Prime Minister, Prithviraj Dal, an elderly man with twinkling eyes and a charming manner, whom she liked immediately, and several other members of his government, whose names she hardly caught.

  ‘Now come,’ Sitraj said.

  Laura wished only to sit down and rest. She would also have liked to eat something, for breakfast seemed a very long time ago. But she was Rani of Sittapore now, and so she followed her husband down some steps into a magnificent garden. The centrepiece was a fountain, in which the water spouted from the mouth of a large stone tiger, head reared back and paw upraised to strike. In the shallow pool swam many-coloured goldfish.

  Surrounding the fountain there was a gravel walk, and flowerbeds surrounded by colonnaded and roofed walkways, open to the breeze. Everywhere the friezes were exquisitely carved in the erotically lifelike Hindu style.

  Here there was an army of bowing servants, each of whom Sitraj paused to greet, thus forcing Laura to do likewise. But at last they were past the servants, and being shown through double doors at the far end of the garden, into another high-ceilinged reception chamber.

  ‘I would have you meet my mother,’ Sitraj said. ‘The Dowager Rani Bilkis.’

  *

  Laura was taken entirely aback; Sitraj had told her his father was dead, but he had not mentioned his mother at all; therefore she had assumed that the old queen was also dead. The idea that he should have decided to marry without first presenting his bride to his mother, or even informing her of the event until after it had been consummated, she found astonishing. The Dowager Rani was surprisingly tall, somewhat heavy but by no means fat; she wore the white sari of widowhood.

  Her face was also heavy-featured; in fact she bore a startling resemblance to Prince Batraj who, of course, would be her nephew, Laura realised. She wondered what thoughts this old lady must have at seeing this new and strange daughter-in-law so unexpectedly foisted upon her. And what her reaction would be when she heard the terms of the marriage contract.

  But Bilkis was smiling, extending her arms.

  ‘Welcome to Sittapore, my daughter,’ she said in English almost as good as her son’s. ‘Welcome.’

  Laura was embraced, and felt a gush of warm happiness sweeping through her entire body.

  ‘These are your sisters,’ Bilkis said, turning to indicate the three young women standing behind her.

  Laura gulped; these must he Sitraj’s wives.

  Vaguely she heard their names: Bibi, Chandra and Indra. They were obviously
older than she, but seemed perfectly pleased to see her, and welcome her into their house.

  ‘And these are your children.’

  Three little boys and a little girl were led out. Sitraj must have given them some kind of a signal, because they broke away from their mothers and ran forward to throw themselves into his arms.

  ‘This is your new mother,’ Sitraj explained, as he set them on the floor again. They solemnly bowed. ‘You will have to learn their names at your leisure,’ he said. ‘But now, I can tell, you are both tired and hungry.’

  ‘I had not realised,’ she said weakly, thinking less of the exhaustion than of the enormous family she had suddenly accumulated.

  ‘You will soon become used to it. Mother, shall we eat?’

  *

  After the meal, Laura was escorted to her apartment, a place of open balustrades and cool breezes at the back of the palace, on the upper storey and looking down on yet another interior garden so that she could be overlooked by no-one.

  Sitraj took her into the bedchamber, and showed her the huge, cushion-strewn divan. Miljah was already there, setting everything to rights, but she hurried off when her master and mistress arrived.

  Sitraj sat beside Laura on the divan, and held her hands. ‘Are you pleased?’

  ‘I am delighted. But, Sitraj, your other wives...how long have you been married to them?’

  ‘The first, ten years, the second eight years, and the third, six years.’

  Laura swallowed. ‘Then they are all much older than I.’

  ‘Not so much. In India we get married much younger than in Europe. Bibi, my first wife, is only twenty-two.’

  Laura was aghast. ‘You mean she came to you when she was twelve?’

  ‘She was nubile,’ Sitraj pointed out. ‘The others were no older. Indra is the same age as you are now.’

  ‘But...you said I would take precedence.’

  ‘So you will.’

  ‘I cannot possibly take precedence over Bibi, if she is twenty-two and has been your wife for ten years.’

  ‘Laura,’ Sitraj said quietly. ‘It is I who decides the order of’ precedence of my wives, no-one else. I promised your parents that you would be my principal wife. My mother will understand this. And, lest you be in any doubt, the son you will bear me will be the next Rajah. This I will announce to my people tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Sitraj,’ she said. ‘Will I bear you a son?’

  He smiled at her. ‘Of course. No matter how often we have to try.’

  ‘Oh, Sitraj,’ she said. ‘I am so very happy.’

  Bombay, Christmas Eve, 1825

  It seems that the Burma campaign has now come to a successful conclusion.

  I should explain that two years ago a Burmese army, led by one Maha Bandula, a general of great repute, invaded India on two fronts. Naturally we declared war. I deeply regret that I was not here when it began, for I would certainly have volunteered.

  It was not an easy business. It took several months to organise a chastising expeditionary force under Sir Archibald Campbell. But this was eventually done, and in May of last year Rangoon was seized.

  Those rascally fellows, however, refused to submit, and our lads were stuck in that dismal town in the monsoon, ravaged by fever and dysentery, literally dropping like flies. Naturally the savages pressed their advantage, Bandula shrieking victory the while.

  Reinforcements, including a rocket battery, were got up to the city by way of the river, and these soon dispersed the natives. Thank God for the Navy, I say. Thus in February of this year, when I first arrived here, Sir Archibald was enabled to resume his advance, again supported by our gallant tars. In a battle at a place called Danubyu, in April, Bandula was killed. One would have supposed that the Burmese would then have cried: enough.

  Not a bit of it. When Sir Archibald went into monsoon quarters around the city of Prome the natives, now commanded by one Maha Menyo, promptly commenced further hostilities. Despite the rain, Sir Archibald lashed out, and our latest report is that he has gained a complete victory, and that the Burmese are prepared to sue for peace and make lavish concessions.

  Serve the rascals right. I wish I had been there.

  Life in Bombay has this year been unusually dull, since the exciting affairs of the spring. I have suffered my first monsoon, and an unpleasant business it is. The rain is not continuous, but when it falls it is so heavy that it gets in everywhere. I have discovered that the roof of my bungalow leaks like a sieve, and it is small comfort to know that the roof of every other bungalow is in a similar condition. The roads are quagmires, and it is impossible to attend parade without being coated in mud from the knees down.

  Naturally there have been any number of sick, and even a suicide reported. I can well believe it.

  Rufus has now improved his biting of Hindus to five a week. I am hoping to improve on this further still, as he is not yet fully grown. I am not of course entirely popular with the trades-people but that is their lookout, say I.

  I am toying with the idea of getting him a mate. But she will have to match him for size. ‘Then I can begin breeding my own Bartlett hounds. They may yet bring me fame and fortune.

  I should record that for all my determination never again to become involved with the opposite sex I have agreed to make an assignation for this evening’s ball. I could hardly avoid doing so. The young lady’s name is Prudence Partridge, and she is the Colonel’s daughter. Having virtually been commanded to dance attendance on the young lady, I shall do my best. As a matter of fact, she is attractive in a dark, intense sort of way. I understand she is sixteen.

  The news from Sittapore is that the Rani is, as the poets put it, great with child, or as we should say with more delicacy, in an interesting condition.

  ‘Oh God! Tomorrow, in the hottest weather any of us has yet experienced, we shall have to struggle through mountains of turkey and plum pudding, and play childish games in the mess. What torment! I would give anything for a good English snow fall, the nip of an English frost. How I loathe this place. Can hell itself be any hotter? And above all, I hate the sly Hindu!

  3 The Tragedy

  ‘Are you pleased?’ Laura asked.

  Sitraj kissed her on the forehead. ‘I am delighted. He is a splendid child. Was it very painful for you?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Your mother was magnificent. So were the girls. They gave me something to chew, and I never felt a thing. Indeed, I had very happy dreams.’

  ‘It is called bhang,’ he told her, ‘and is made from the hemp plant. It is not a good thing to become addicted to it.’

  ‘I can understand that. One would never wish to do anything else, but dream. Oh, Sitraj! I am so very happy.’

  ‘Which is what I wish you to be,’ he said, and kissed her again. ‘I only want you to be able to return to my bed at the very earliest possible moment.’

  ‘It will not be long,’ she promised him. ‘I feel better than at any time in my life. What will you call him?’

  ‘What would you like to call him?’

  ‘Oh!’ She had not considered that the choice might be left to her.

  ‘Would you like to call him after your father?’

  ‘Carmichael?’ She smiled. ‘How can we have a rajah called Carmichael? It would make people laugh.’

  ‘I suppose it would,’ he agreed.

  ‘Let us call him after your father.’

  ‘Sivitraj? Are you sure?’

  ‘Sivitraj,’ Laura said carefully. ‘Yes. I am sure.’

  He kissed her a third time. ‘It will please my mother.’

  *

  The choice of name also pleased the people of Sittapore. There were bonfires and firework displays to celebrate the naming of the future rajah.

  Prince Batraj made the little Prince a present of a bag of emeralds.

  Laura was becoming used to being surrounded by such wealth. The jaghir of Sittapore might earn its sustenance by its abundant wheatfields and its numerous flocks of
sheep and goats, but the wealth of the reigning family came from the emerald mine just outside the city. Here the precious stones were hewn from the living rock before being handed to lapidarists for cutting. And the mine belonged to Sitraj and his cousin.

  To Sitraj and his family, however, money was of not the slightest importance. It was there, because it had always been there. Even their final defeat by the British, within living memory, had been a military humiliation, not a financial one: the Company had been only too eager to maintain the various princes of Scindhia in power as long as they kept the peace within their domains, and allowed the Company to trade.

  Laura had never known such financial recklessness. She had but to admire something and it was hers, express the faintest wish that something might be changed, and it was done immediately.

  What was most disturbing was the amazing gap between the ruling Scindhia family, and the rest of the populace. The majority lived, so far as Laura could make out, in desperate poverty, yet total happiness, not the least concerned that their ruler might squander what was to them a lifetime’s income, on a present for his wife.

  She reflected that the same difference in living standards no doubt obtained in England. From all accounts the extravagance of King George IV, compared with the living standards of the poorest of his people, was such that incipient revolution was bubbling all the time beneath the surface. That at least could not be said of Scindhia.

  Yet, for all her happiness in Sitraj’s arms, she continued to feel a stranger, bewildered. There was such a vast number of things she had to learn about her new home, and her new people.

  *

  It had begun with her Indian wedding, surrounded by flaming torches and flagrant erotica, openly spoken prayers for her fecundity and that she should please her husband.

  The people of Sittapore, like their ruling house, were Hindus. Their religion was based firstly on the Rigveda and secondly on the Upanishads. The beliefs expressed in the Rigveda at least were far more ancient than those of the Christian Bible, and equally revered by their adherents.