Djerat stood at the ford, arms akimbo, her expression clearly visible through the curling hair on her face. "I will not turn away from Lahore. If you believe you must go back across the river, you will go without my wagon, or me." It was early in the day and the sky was brassy with high, thin clouds that gave the expanse around them a henna-like color promising stifling heat by mid-morning.
Tulsi shook her head. "I have no wish to leave you," she said, her head lowered and her voice deliberately soft. "I do not think-"
"No. You do not. You listen to that foreigner, and you take leave of everything you have learned. Do you suppose I cannot see it? You are infatuated with him. You have invested him with all your wishes and dreams, so that if he says 'turn east and south' you say 'yes; we must do that' all the while forgetting that you have been kept by the army of Timur-i, which is the most powerful army in the world." Djerat pointed to her wagon, standing a short distance away from the riverbank; Sanat Ji Mani was occupied trimming the mules' hooves. "He is useful, I grant you that, but he is foolish."
"Because he does not wish to follow Timur-i?" Tulsi asked. "Why is this a foolish thing? You have seen what his army has done to cities from Damascus to Delhi: why should you want to view more destruction?"
"Because Timur-i is rich, and powerful beyond reckoning. All the kings of the world bow down to him, except the Emperor of China, who is his kinsman," said Djerat flatly. "He is generous with those who please him. He gave me a pearl once for taking off my clothes to show I am hairy all over; I brushed myself from head to toe for him. Where else could I hope for such largesse? You may be able to perform in any market-square and eke out a living, but I cannot share your gamble: too many are inclined to call me a wolf-woman or bear-woman and hunt me as if I were a beast. I will put myself in such danger for no one-no one." She strolled a few steps farther away from the wagon, putting them well out of hearing.
"You might find safety in other cities-cities Timur-i has not touched," Tulsi ventured.
"That is his opinion, is it not?" Djerat said, and spat. "You have no thought about what is to come, do you? You listen to his tales and declare that you are in agreement with all that he says. But you do not consider that a man who cannot stand to walk in the sun may have a hard time in the world. You would be his servant, and he could offer you little for your devotion. He says he is an exile, that his country is in the hands of those who are not his people, and you do not question this."
"Why should I?" Tulsi countered with some heat. "All he has said has been true, when I have tested it."
"And what can you test, you stupid girl?" Djerat demanded. "He knows medicaments, I will give you that. But how can you show any of his other claims are true? He may be nothing more than a charlatan who has assumed a role for himself; you cannot put him to the test to find out. He cannot swear on the Qran, and it might not mean anything if he did, for he is not a Muslim. You are willing to believe him, but there is no good reason you should. He is from far enough away that he might claim anything with impunity. You say he has jewels and gold in his pack, along with medicaments and other supplies. How do you know that he does not have bits of colored glass and base metal painted in saffron to look like gold? Many another has been fooled by such ruses." Her derisive chuckle was high and shrill.
"Why would he say they are jewels when they are not? And the gold is gold," Tulsi protested. In their two long days of travel she had been worn down by Djerat's constant belittling of Sanat Ji Mani. Now that they were at a ford, she realized matters had reached a head. "He has done much for us. Have you no gratitude?"
"No; why should I? I did not ask for his help. I never wanted it." Djerat sighed. "He is an intruder who chose to follow us into the river. Neither you nor I summoned him. He is nothing to either of us but a man riding in the wagon. All that has come after is on his head. I cannot say anything to his credit because of what he did." She pursed her lips. "If he makes us his responsibility, what is it to me?"
"Your mules have survived, thanks to him," Tulsi pointed out. "You lost only two, but without him you might not have any left."
"They have benefitted him as much as they have me. And, yes, two of them drowned, in spite of him." Djerat shrugged.
"But he has done all he can to be useful. Surely that is worthy of regard." Color mounted in her face. "He is a-"
"He is another set of hands, yes. He is strong enough, and has some abilities that are useful, and many problems that are not: he cannot endure the sun. He is a foreigner from a place that will provide him no ransom, or so he claims. He has habits that are not the habits of our people. He is also a man with a staple through his foot. He might as well proclaim himself a criminal and be done with it," Djerat jeered.
"Is that what you believe? It is almost as if you think he has imposed upon us," Tulsi said, astonished at what Djerat told her.
"Well, has he not?" Djerat inquired softly. "From the first, he has made us beholden to him, and expressed demands because of it."
"What demands are these-beyond sheltering him from the sun?" Tulsi challenged, her anger coming to the fore.
"He has expected us to comply with his wishes," said Djerat, frowning her resentment as she spoke.
"Why should he not?" Tulsi pursued. "His wishes have been to our benefit as well as his."
"Perhaps," said Djerat. "But we would not have been on the barge when it overturned had he not ordered us out of our place in line. We would still be with the army and safe, not out here in these wild places-"
"There is a village across the ford," Tulsi said, pointing toward the walled cluster of mud-brick houses. Sounds of activity within the walls sounded across the river-ford-shouts and the shrieks of children a reminder of how close they were.
"And who knows what manner of men live there," Djerat said as if in agreement. "You suppose they are there to aid us, but if they are not? What if they prey on those who must cross here? Think of what they might do."
"I cannot imagine what they might do," Tulsi said roundly. "Neither can you. If they are by a ford, they must deal with travelers often."
"Exactly what I mean," Djerat responded. "How they deal with travelers is what we do not know: none of us knows. They might be robbers or slavers or cannibals."
"They might be farmers and builders, too," Tulsi said. "I am willing to take the chance."
"If you do, you will do it without me, or my mules and my wagon." She lifted her head, sensing triumph. "If you follow him, you do so with nothing from me."
"But how are we to manage, if he has no protection from the sun? You see how readily he burns ..." Her words trailed off as she encountered the sardonic light in Djerat's eyes. "It means nothing to you, does it."
"No-nothing. I am going to find Timur-i's army and hope that I might be welcome there still. What you do is for you to decide. If you come with me, I will be content with your company; if you go with him, I will be content with my own." Djerat folded her arms. "He has been good to the mules, I will give him that."
Tulsi scowled. "You do not suppose that he has only that to recommend him."
"It is all I have seen of his worth," said Djerat. "Everything else has brought me trouble." She began to walk back toward the wagons, her face so set that the uncompromising lines were apparent in spite of her hair. "You will have to decide, Tulsi Kil, which of us you intend to travel with, for I cannot and I will not go out of my way for him or you."
There were many questions burgeoning in Tulsi's thoughts, but she could not bring herself to continue wrangling with Djerat, who had taken her in and provided her a place in her wagon for the three years since her parents had been abandoned at the side of the road, each with an eye gouged from its socket, both with brands on their arms and foreheads. "He may not want my company," she muttered.
"Then the matter is easily settled," said Djerat, clapping her hands once in satisfaction. "You will remain with me and he may go wherever he pleases. We will be rid of him and think no more of him."
"But I will have to ask him if he wants to travel alone," Tulsi appended, her tone once more assertive. "If he would prefer that I remain with you, then I will. Otherwise I will go with him."
Djerat stopped and turned her disapproving stare on Tulsi. "You are determined to work against me." She stared off at the horizon. "Very well. Let us put him to the test. You will abide by his decision, as will I."
Tulsi swallowed hard. "I will." She began to walk more quickly, her stride lithe and clean, giving no hint of her inner dismay. "Whatever the result, it will be settled."
"That it will," said Djerat, keeping up in steady, emphatic steps that came down heavily on her heels.
From his place in the shade of the wagon, Sanat Ji Mani paused in rasping the hoof of the third mule; the rising sun was beginning to sap his strength and he relied increasingly on the slight protection of the wagon's shadow. He straightened up slowly, releasing the animal's on-side rear foot as he did, and stepped back to avoid the quick kick the mule gave. He slipped the rasp into his belt where the other farrier's tools hung, clanging softly together as he moved. Although he had given no indication of it, he had heard most of what the two women said, his hearing being keener than most. "I am nearly finished," he called out. "One mule to go."
"I will not keep you from your work long," Djerat exclaimed with a predatory eagerness that caused Tulsi to blush.
"Very well," said Sanat Ji Mani, inclining his head out of courtesy.
Djerat and Tulsi were a few steps from the wagon, both of them intent on arriving first as if they had agreed to race. Tulsi was half a step ahead of Djerat, and she allowed herself the ghost of a grin as she touched the side of the vehicle; behind her Djerat looked glum as she said, "It is time we come to a decision."
Sanat Ji Mani listened attentively, hardly moving; Tulsi glanced at Djerat and began, "You have said you want to cross the river at this ford and go south into the heart of the land." She saw him nod and went on, "Djerat wishes to rejoin Timur-i's army."
"I have said so from the first," Djerat pointed out, not looking at Sanat Ji Mani. "And I will do it."
"Yes," Tulsi said. "That is true; you have said so. We all know your wishes. This is the place where a decision must be made, or so Djerat has decided. She will not cross the river. You intended to cross."
"Where is the difficulty in that?" Sanat Ji Mani asked without any sign of discomfiture.
Djerat took over. "If it were only your leaving, there would be no difficulty, but you wish Tulsi to go with you. I wish her to come with me."
"Then it is Tulsi's decision to make," Sanat Ji Mani said. "I will not tell her what to do, but I would be glad of her company."
"Hah!" Djerat pounced. "You seek to awaken her sympathy for you. You, with the staple through your foot and skin that burns after the touch of the sun. She is a woman who is easily gulled. You are working on her to turn her away from me."
"Not that, surely," Sanat Ji Mani said in a conciliating manner. "I would appreciate her company-and yours, if you were willing to provide it: nothing more."
"What man who is not a eunuch means that?" Djerat asked of the air, then confronted Sanat Ji Mani. "You have sought Tulsi from the moment you saw her. You have planned to take her from my care. You will use her and discard her when she no longer amuses you, and then she will be alone and homeless in the world, and prey to the whims of any man with shelter and a meal to offer her. She will become pregnant and her child will die by the roadside. You will be gone. It will mean nothing to you."
Sanat Ji Mani contemplated Djerat, an unnerving compassion in his enigmatic gaze. "Because such happened to you, it does not follow it must happen to Tulsi. Not all men use women so callously."
Djerat stood as if frozen. "How dare you!" she burst out at last.
"It is what happened to you, is it not," Sanat Ji Mani said. "You have such concern for Tulsi Kil because of your experience, which is commendable of you."
"You are ridiculous-absurd!" Djerat insisted. "Do not listen to him, Tulsi. He seeks to confuse you."
"Why would I do that?" Sanat Ji Mani asked. "I hope she would have her mind clear to weigh her decision-a decision you require her to make, not I."
"That is another sophistry," Djerat accused. "You want her company you say, which means you, too, must have her decision."
"Hers or yours," Sanat Ji Mani replied. He nodded toward the village across the ford. "There must be a meal to be had there. You have said you are hungry."
"We must all be hungry; I know I am, and that we must be fed, all of us," said Tulsi to forestall further bickering. "As must the mules. If we cross the river, we can eat while a final decision is made."
This recommendation was so eminently practical that Djerat made a brusque gesture of consent. "The mules need fodder. Very well. We will cross. After we have eaten, I will tell you now that I will come back to this side of the river and go toward Lahore. Nothing will change that."
"I will finish trimming the mules' feet while you have a meal," Sanat Ji Mani said. "You will want that done."
"Not that I cannot do it myself," Djerat reminded him. "Tie them to the wagon-tongue, and let us get over the water."
Sanat Ji Mani took the improvised rope harness and hitched up the mules to the wagon. At last he handed the hempen reins to Djerat, who had climbed onto the driving-seat, and swung up into the tent on the wagon. The shadow engulfed him, providing a needed surcease from the sun. He lay back on the floor, prepared for a short period of intense vertigo and discomfort he would receive from the running water.
"Do you want anything to drink?" Tulsi asked from her place in the rear of the wagon. "We have a little water left."
Sanat Ji Mani resisted the urge to laugh. "No; thank you, no water."
The wagon began to roll into the river, the mules splashing as they made their way through the wide, shallow stretch of water; the wagon swaggered after them as the river rose more than halfway up the wheels. Finally the wagon emerged from the water a short distance from the village walls, to be greeted by a group of children, who ran out from the gate shouting and beckoning to Djerat, a few of them staring in disbelief at her hairy visage.
"Get back, you urchins!" Djerat shouted. "Get back. You will frighten the mules."
The children answered in an unfamiliar tongue; a few of the older ones ran back into the village, summoning their elders by the sound of it.
Eventually a man with greying hair appeared at the gate; he stood still, his full attention on Djerat, and finally asked, "Are you alone?" He spoke a variation of the Delhi dialect in a low and deliberate manner as if that would make him more comprehensible.
Djerat understood him well enough to answer, "There are two more in the wagon."
"Not so many." He motioned the children away from the wagon. "It is well you have come to our village. We have feed for your mules and a meal for you and your companions. We will not demand much money."
"Good; we have traveled far and we are weary," said Djerat, her skeptical tone of voice belying her. "Where shall I put my wagon?"
"Over there," the man said, pointing to a frond-covered arbor just inside the gate. "There are seats for you and a barn for your team; there are stalls beyond the goats' pen."
Djerat drove her mules up to the barn and got down from the driving-seat. "We are arrived," she called out to her passengers; at once Tulsi came out of the rear of the tent and did a series of cartwheels and somersaults for the children watching. "Have the foreigner get to work on the hooves before we do anything else," Djerat ordered, cutting Tulsi's demonstration short.
"That I will," said Tulsi, and opened the rear flap for Sanat Ji Mani. "She wants the hooves done. There's just one more mule to do, is there not?"
"I heard her; there is just the one mule remaining," Sanat Ji Mani said as he climbed out of the wagon, still feeling somewhat queasy from their passage through the river. He did his best to walk evenly, but could not. "I wish I did not draw attention in this way," he remarked to Tulsi, nodding at his right foot.
"It is a dreadful thing," she said sympathetically.
"More importantly, it is easily noticed and recalled. If Timur-i sends soldiers after us, they need only say a foreigner with a stirrup on his foot and they will learn where we have been." He put his hands on his farrier's tools. "These are not very useful as weapons." This was not entirely true: he had seen nippers and rasps used as instruments of torture, but that did not recommend them to him.
"No. We have no bows and arrows, no shimtares." Tulsi shook her head. "I can fight with a staff if I must."
"Hardly enough against Timur-i's soldiers, if it comes to that," said Sanat Ji Mani, thinking back to the beautiful sword Saito Masashige had given him at Chui-Cho fortress almost two hundred years ago. How relieved he would be to have that weapon with him now; it would be as welcome as a chest of his native earth, but the sword was in his homeland, at the remote stronghold he maintained there for his occasional use. He consoled himself with the realization that Timur-i would surely have confiscated the katana had he had the opportunity, and so it would not be available to him now in any case. He would have to improvise a weapon, if the need for one arose. "We will have to think of something."
"Do you suppose Timur-i is searching for us?" Tulsi asked uneasily, lowering her voice still more so they could not be overheard.
"I am not sure," Sanat Ji Mani admitted. "He may wish to make an example of us, or he may not consider us worth the effort."
"Then you think we are safe?" Tulsi stared at him, her grey-green eyes wide.
"No. I do not think that," he answered drily. "Neither do you."
She ducked her head. "No." They had reached the front of the wagon, and Tulsi patted the rump of the nearest mule. "Are you going to unhitch them?"
"It would make my work easier, but I may not, just in case we may wish to depart quickly," Sanat Ji Mani said, smiling at the children who stood around them. "Given Djerat's apprehension, I am not sure I want to have the team separated from the wagon. I can take care of the mule without unhitching him."
"I understand," said Tulsi with a nod. "I will entertain these folk, and you can finish your work here in the shade. You do not want that burn to worsen."
Sanat Ji Mani gave her a thoughtful look before going to the one mule still needing his hooves tended to; the sunlight was enervating, but with the mat of fronds to provide shade, he was not so exhausted as he feared he would be; at mid-day it would be another matter, for the sun's intensity would make the shade less a protection than it was now. He laid his arm along the last mule's back and scratched the animal high on the withers; the mule craned his neck, his upper lip pushed forward in ecstacy as Sanat Ji Mani's fingers worked their magic. When the mule was at ease, Sanat Ji Mani bent and lifted the on-side front foot. "This will not take long," he said, using the nippers to trim away the edge of the hoof; the mule swung around and nudged Sanat Ji Mani in the hip, as if urging him to get on with it. "I will, I will," Sanat Ji Mani said to the mule as he continued to ply the nippers.
"You say you will not be long: not too long, I trust?" Djerat asked as she came up to him. "You must be hungry."
"Do not wait for me," Sanat Ji Mani said. "I will take nourishment later, when we are truly safe."
"Then you fear we may be in danger," she said, not quite accusing him.
"I think it is possible," he said, trading the nippers for his rasp.
"Do you suppose they mean us harm?" Djerat asked, glancing at the children.
"I do not know what they mean us," Sanat Ji Mani replied. "That is why I am careful."
The old man who had offered them village hospitality came up to Djerat. "Who are you? Where are you going?"
Before Sanat Ji Mani could speak, Djerat said, "I am Djerat. I am going to Lahore and Kabul." She gave Sanat Ji Mani a challenging look.
Tulsi was walking on her hands to the delight of the children; one or two of them tried to do the same and toppled, laughing, into the dirt. Tulsi dropped her feet down so that they almost touched her head.
"Is she a holy woman?" the old man asked as he watched Tulsi perform.
"What? She holy?" Djerat laughed. "No. She is a ... an acrobat, a tumbler. She does these things for amusement, not for religion."
The old man frowned, the good-will going out of his face. "So," he said measuringly.
Sanat Ji Mani moved on to the on-side rear hoof, all the while keeping a covert watch on Tulsi Kil. The mule fussed at having his hoof lifted, but finally brought it up, muscles tight, while Sanat Ji Mani went to work with the nippers again.
"What about water?" Djerat said to the old man. "We are thirsty."
"There is water, in those skins hanging in the door. They are filled from our well, not the river." The old man smiled proudly. "Our well is sweet."
"I am sure it is," said Djerat, adding, "How much to buy a skin of water?"
The old man frowned. "A goat-skin contains a lot of water. I would want a gold coin." This price was outrageous and both the old man and Djerat knew it.
"A silver coin-nothing more," said Djerat. "The river might not be so sweet as your well, but its water is abundant and we may drink from it for nothing more than a prayer."
"Then do so. We will keep our skins." He contemplated Djerat. "Your food will cost you silver coins."
Djerat was about to give him a sharp answer when Sanat Ji Mani spoke up. "I have gold," he said, reaching into the wallet that hung from his belt. He took out a small coin with the Sultan's seal upon it; he tossed it to the old man. "That should buy food for us and for our animals and leave enough for a skin of well-water."
The old man snatched the coin out of the air and bit it. Satisfied, he thrust it into the top of his leather waist-band. "This will do." He clapped his hands. "Food for our visitors. Now!"
"Why did you do that?" Djerat asked Sanat Ji Mani in an undervoice. "Now he knows we have gold."
"He knows I have gold," Sanat Ji Mani corrected her and went on trimming the mule's hooves.
"You have put us in danger, for they will assume if you are willing to give up so much, you have much more to give," Djerat hissed, glancing at Tulsi who was busy performing feats of contortion for the villagers who had gathered to watch her. "They will want to rob us, perhaps imprison us for ransom."
"Perhaps," Sanat Ji Mani said, not wanting to argue with her. "But as it turns out, there are more coins in my medicinal supply bag; I took a few out last night for just such a circumstance as this-oh, not a fortune, but enough to provide for our needs for some time if we are not reckless with spending; these people will probably not want anything more but another coin, which I shall give them. They will treat us well in the hope of getting more, and you may eat without worry. When you are done, we must decide if we are traveling north or east."
"I am traveling north. Do not think to alter that. I am taking my wagon and my mules back across the river and I am going to find Timur-i's army. You may come with me, or you may leave, but I will not change my mind about where I am bound, whether or not I have any of your coins to aid me. I will not be bought off by you." She folded her arms. "Also: I will not let you take Tulsi with you. She will not be safe, traveling with the likes of you."
There was a note in her tone that caught Sanat Ji Mani's attention. "How do you mean-the likes of me?"
"I know you have done more to my mules than groom them and tend to their feet. You have gone to them in the dark of night and leaned against their necks. I have found marks there, and a little blood, in the morning. Tulsi Kil is no mule. You will not have her to yourself. I will see to it." There was an expression of irate triumph in her bright little eyes.
Sanat Ji Mani met her furious gaze steadily. "Your animals have taken no harm from me and neither will Tulsi Kil if she is willing to travel with me."
"So you say!" Djerat swung away as two men emerged from the house behind the arbor with trays of fruit, spiced lentils, and lamb with onions in yoghurt. "You finish your work."
"I will," said Sanat Ji Mani, and bent over the mule's off-side rear hoof.
"Tulsi! Come! There is food!" Djerat went to sit on one of the low benches under the frond-mat, leaving room for the trays to be placed before her; she patted the stool beside her. "Come, girl. You must eat!"
Tulsi left off her performing and came over to the arbor; she was panting a little from her exertions and there was a sheen of sweat on her face. "This looks most satisfactory," she said, looking over at Sanat Ji Mani. "Are you not joining us?"
"I am not yet finished with trimming this mule's hooves," he said, aware it was not quite an answer. "Have what you want. I will fend for myself."
"Yes," said the old man, sitting down near them. "Have what you want. If it is not enough, you can always buy more." His smile showed missing teeth and happy avarice.
"You've had all the money you will get from us," said Djerat as Tulsi sat down on another low stool. "What about something to drink?"
"We have mango pulp with fermented goats' milk," said the old man proudly, aware that this was a luxury in such a village as his.
"I'll have some," Djerat declared, thumping her hand on her thigh. "For this woman, too. Bring each of us a large cup of it."
The old man clapped his hands together and issued more commands. "You will have it. What of the foreign man?"
"Nothing for him until his work is done," said Djerat with a satisfied smirk. "He will let you know what he wants." Her glance in Sanat Ji Mani's direction was sly, insinuating many things.
"It is strange for a woman to have charge of a man not her slave," said the old man. "How does it come about?"
"Timur-i put him in my care," Djerat said, very nearly boasting.
The old man drew back, shocked. "He is a slave of Timur-i Lenkh?" Fear raised the pitch of his voice almost five notes. "You brought Timur-i Lenkh's slave here?"
"He is not a slave," Tulsi said. "He was captured at Delhi when the city fell. Sanat Ji Mani is a healer, and Timur-i wanted his skills."
Djerat glowered at her. "Because, as you see, he cannot endure the sun, he has traveled in my wagon for protection." She realized the old man was still unconvinced. "Timur-i had a white-skinned brother, who died because of the sun. He has shown this foreigner favor because of his brother, I think."
The old man nodded, somewhat mollified. "I had heard that about the brother; they say his eyes were red. I have also heard that Timur-i has been supplanted by his rival and is now left to wander the roads a beggar."
"I have heard that, too," said Djerat, sensing that they were once again on easy footing. "But I saw Timur-i for myself, six days ago, riding his mouse-colored horse and leading his army. No one had usurped his place."
"Indeed," said the old man. "Here are your cups. Enjoy your drink." He moved away from the arbor, saying as he went. "It is not fitting that I stay with women alone. You are not my wives."
Djerat called out her thanks and took her cup from the man who proffered it. "Very good," she told him by way of dismissal.
From his place with the mules, Sanat Ji Mani watched the two women eat; he realized this might be his last morning in their company, that from this place their journeys would lead them in different directions. For just an instant, he felt despair and a loneliness so intense that it made the ache from the sunlight seem diminished by comparison. Then he went to the mule's off-side front foot and bent to trim it.
Text of a letter from Rustam Iniattir in Fustat to Rojire in Alexandria, carried by hired courier.
To the servant of the most worthy foreigner, Sanat Ji Mani, the greetings of Rustam Iniattir from his new home in Fustat, which now, I fear, must become my home for generations to come. Our house fronts a road that they say the Romans made more than a thousand years ago. It is a worthy place for so old a House as that of Iniattir.
Alas, that it should fall to me to send you such dreadful news, but I must tell you that I have just received a letter from my nephew, Zal Iniattir, who tells me that Delhi is no more, that for those who were not fortunate enough to escape, the soldiers of Timur-i delivered death to most of them, and slavery to the rest. I regret that I can provide no news of your master, which I fear we must receive as indicating misfortune, if not tragedy. My nephew has said that it was because of Sanat Ji Mani's aid that he was able to leave Delhi before it fell, and for that alone I would be enduringly grateful to him; well I know that the House of Iniattir would be a shambles were it not for Sanat Ji Mani. To that end, I pledge a third of my fortune to pay his ransom if it should ever be demanded, and I will ask my kinsmen to prepare like amounts to be used on his behalf and none other.
My nephew is now in the central-south of the land, and has made a place for himself there. He believes we can restore our House to its position of high regard within a few years. While I am not so optimistic, I think it is not impossible for us to maintain ourselves well enough, so that should you need our funds for ransom, you need not fret that it will be unavailable to you. I wish you to know that no matter how difficult our situation may be, we will not shirk our duty to Sanat Ji Mani. Those who follow the way of Zarathustra may not turn aside from their obligations simply because they are inconvenient.
I received your letter informing me that Avasa Dani has died of a fever. What a sad ending for such a fine woman. I have asked my family to remember her name with honor in our prayers. It must be a blow to you, entrusted, as you were, with her safety and protection. I cannot imagine what dismay you must feel at this most lamentable occurrence. It is nothing when compared to the loss of your master, but it is still a shock. She had come so far. With her husband on his extended pilgrimage there is no way to inform him of her death, for even should he survive his journey, he will find a ruin when he comes again to Delhi. What a terrible predicament for you: she has no male relatives left to receive your report, and you cannot find your master to tell him of her demise, either. For a meritorious servant such as you are, this is an unenviable predicament. I cannot advise you, for I have never before encountered such a conundrum as this one with which you are presented.
You indicated that if you receive no word of your master in a few years, you will travel to Rome, to await him there. If you decide to leave Alexandria, I ask you to inform me, so that I may know when and where you are to be found in case I hear anything deserving of your attention. You say that your master has holdings near Rome, and that you wish to be in that city if he does not send you word to meet him in another place. I see the wisdom of this plan, but I urge you to leave staff at the house in Alexandria. If you cannot keep servants there, I will send those of mine that I can spare to maintain the house until such time as his death is confirmed. I trust this arrangement will be satisfactory to you. I do not intend to intrude upon you, but I wish to do my part in making it possible to discover what has become of your master. My son has been told to continue this arrangement should anything happen to me before your master's fate is known.
In your letter, you were kind enough to provide the name of a merchant at Tana on the Byzantine Sea. I will avail myself of the introduction you have provided, for, as you have said, Immuk Suza has markets as far away as Kiev in Lithuania and Gran in Hungary, which I am certain can be turned to our mutual advantage. For many years I have longed to find new markets and new trading-goods, and now, you provide me an opportunity that I had not thought to encounter in this life, and for which I most sincerely thank you. You may be certain I will not make light of this opportunity you have made possible, and I will pledge a third of my success to the use of your master, who may yet have need of it, if he has survived. It is the least I can do; you may repose your confidence in my Word, as your master must have told you.
I await your response most eagerly, and I pray that we may both soon have the joy of welcoming your master into the land of Egypt in the Mameluke Empire. In the meantime, I hope you will be spared any greater grief than what you have already suffered.
Rustam Iniattir
Parsi merchant of Fustat
At the Vernal Equinox, from the house of Iniattir in the Street of the Old Highway