Chapter 5: "The Weight of the Crown"

Section 1: The Divine Decree

Hazarduari Palace – Diwan-i-Khas (Hall of Private Audience)

Saifullah-ud-Doula stood before the marble throne, his fingers tracing the Quranic verses etched into its armrests. The morning sun streamed through the lattice windows, casting golden patterns over the Persian carpets. The scent of frankincense hung heavy in the air, a reminder of his father's piety—and his own burden to uphold it.

"Huzoor, the emissaries from the Ottoman Sultan await your audience," Mirza, his vizier, murmured.

Saifullah nodded but did not turn. His eyes lingered on the sword of Tipu Sultan, mounted on the wall beside the throne—a gift from Mysore's Lion, forged with the inscription: "Better to live one day as a tiger than a thousand years as a sheep."

"Send them in," he said.

The Ottomans entered with the arrogance of men who had once ruled half the world. Their leader, Kemal Pasha, bowed shallowly, his turban studded with emeralds. "The Sublime Porte offers you an alliance, Nawab Saheb. Together, we can expel the British kuffar from India."

Saifullah's jaw tightened. The Ottomans, who abandoned the Mughals to their fate. Who trade with the British while preaching jihad.

"Your Sultan's generosity is noted," he replied coldly. "But Bengal does not beg for allies. We choose them."

Kemal's smile faltered. "And how do you choose?"

Saifullah lifted the Quran from the throne. "By this. Any alliance must honor the laws of Allah. No opium trade. No treaties with those who spread fitnah—homosexuality, liberalism, the rot of the West."

The Ottomans exchanged glances. Kemal leaned closer. "The British have spies in your court. Even now, they plot with the Marathas. You need us."

"Leave," Saifullah said. "And take your compromises with you."

As they retreated, Mirza hissed, "Was that wise, Huzoor? The Ottomans control the Hajj routes. They could turn the ulema against you."

Saifullah's voice softened. "Allah does not reward those who bargain with sin."

Section 2: The Law of the Land

Murshidabad Qila (Fortress) – Courtyard of Justice

A crowd gathered under the scorching sun, their murmurs silenced as Saifullah ascended the wooden minbar (pulpit). Below, a young man knelt in chains, accused of sodomy by his neighbors.

"Huzoor," the accuser cried, "he defiled my son! The Quran demands justice!"

Saifullah's chest tightened. In his past life, he had marched in Dhaka's Pride parades, but here, he was bound by divine law. Allah's word is clear. Surah Al-A'raf: 'Do you approach males among the worlds…?'

"Bring the witnesses," he commanded.

Four men swore oath, their testimonies unshaken. The accused wept, pleading innocence.

Saifullah closed his eyes. Is this justice? Or is this the test of my resolve?

"By the law of Allah," he declared, "the punishment is death. But let it be swift."

The crowd erupted—some in approval, others in fear.

Later, in the palace gardens, Ayesha confronted him. "Must we be so harsh? The British mock us as savages."

Saifullah's voice cracked. "Would you have me ignore the Quran? I rule by Sharia, not the whispers of Farangis."

Ayesha's gaze hardened. "And what of mercy? The Prophet (ﷺ) said, 'Whoever does not show mercy will not be shown mercy.'"

He turned away. "Mercy is for the innocent. Not for those who corrupt society."

Section 3: The Lion's Gambit

Star Lake Arsenal – Secret Chamber

Beneath the arsenal's foundries, Saifullah met Eli Cohen, a Sephardic Jew from Cochin, whose merchant fleet dominated the Indian Ocean.

"Your cannons are impressive," Eli said, examining a rifled barrel. "But without tungsten, they'll crack under repeated fire. My contacts in Aden can supply it—for a price."

Saifullah studied him. "Why help a Muslim ruler?"

Eli smiled. "The British expelled my people from Bombay. You fight them. I fight them. Business."

"Name your terms."

"Safe passage for Jewish traders in Bengal. No jizya taxes."

Saifullah clenched his fists. Allah commands us to protect the People of the Book. But Eli's greed rankled him. "Agreed. But if your ships carry opium or whores, I'll burn them myself."

Eli bowed. "A man of principle. Rare in these times."

As he left, Siraj emerged from the shadows. "You trust this Yahudi?"

"I trust his hatred of the British," Saifullah said. "Nothing more."

Section 4: The People's Pulse

Bengal Countryside – Village of Kushtia

Saifullah rode through the rice paddies, disguised as a merchant. Peasants bowed to him, unaware of his identity.

"Salam, uncle," a farmer greeted. "The Nawab's new canals saved our harvest. Alhamdulillah!"

"Yet taxes rise," another muttered. "For his wars."

In the marketplace, a madrasa funded by the crown taught boys to recite Quran and calculate crop yields. A girl peered through the window, clutching her brother's slate.

"Bhai, let me learn too!"

The teacher shooed her. "Girls belong at home."

Saifullah intervened. "Let her stay. The Prophet's wife, Aisha (رضي الله عنها), was a scholar. Shall we deny her example?"

The villagers stared. He slipped away before they recognized him.

Section 5: The Shadows Gather

Fort William – British Headquarters

Robert Clive unrolled a smuggled map of Murshidabad, its defenses marked in Hebrew. "The Jew delivered. Saifullah's arrogance will be his downfall."

A Bengali traitor, Nihar Roy, smirked. "He executes sodomites but hires Jews. The people whisper—is he a reformer or a hypocrite?"

Clive poured brandy. "We'll dethrone him with his own laws. Spread word he's defied the ulema. Then, when the mobs riot, we strike."

Section 6: The Ulema's Challenge

Jama Masjid of Murshidabad – Courtyard at Dawn

The call to Fajr prayer echoed across the marble courtyard, where shadows of palm trees stretched like skeletal fingers over a gathering of white-bearded scholars. Saifullah stood at the edge of the prayer rows, his black sherwani blending with the mourners' attire. The ulema had summoned him, not as a ruler, but as a supplicant.

Mufti Ibrahim, their silver-bearded leader, met him beneath the arched portico. His voice carried the weight of decades issuing fatwas. "You consort with a Jew, Huzoor. The people say you value cannons over the Quran."

Saifullah's gaze hardened. "Eli Cohen supplies tungsten, not heresy. The Quran permits trade with the People of the Book—'Until they fight you in faith.'"

A younger scholar, Maulana Tariq, stepped forward, his eyes burning. "And what of his ships? Rumors say they carry khamr (wine) and fahisha (obscenity). Will you let his gold corrupt Bengal?"

Saifullah turned to the crowd. "Do you think me a fool? Every crate from Aden is inspected by your students. If vice slips through, it is your failure, not mine."

The mufti raised a hand, silencing murmurs. "You tread a dangerous path. Alliances with kuffar sow doubt in the people's hearts. Even the Ottomans question your piety."

"Let them," Saifullah snapped. "The Prophet (ﷺ) traded with Jews in Medina. Did he too lack piety?"

The maulana's lip curled. "The Prophet (ﷺ) also expelled the Banu Qaynuqa. Will you wait until this Jew betrays you?"

Saifullah leaned closer, his voice a blade. "I rule by necessity, not naivety. Cohen's ships will arm us to expel the British. Then, if Allah wills, we will deal with him."

The mufti sighed. "We will not oppose you… yet. But remember, Nawab Saheb: The masses are a storm. They can carry you to glory or drown you in their fury."

As the ulema dispersed, Maulana Tariq lingered. His voice dropped to a whisper. "The British have agents everywhere. Even among your court."

Saifullah's eyes narrowed. "Is that a threat?"

"A warning," Tariq said. "Allah sees those who hide behind pragmatism."

Section 7: The Merchant's Deception

Port of Chittagong – Moonlit Docks

Eli Cohen's ships loomed like specters in the harbor, their hulls groaning under the weight of clandestine cargo. Karim, now a trusted spy, crouched behind a barrel, watching sailors unload crates marked "Textiles."

A dockworker pried open a lid. "Yahudi! These are rifles, not silk!"

Eli smirked, tossing him a gold coin. "For the Nawab's enemies. A secret, yes?"

Karim's blood ran cold. Whose enemies?

Later, in the palace archives, he cross-referenced shipment logs. Rifles bound for the Afghan border—where Saifullah's allies, the Durranis, clashed with British-backed tribes.

He's arming both sides.

Section 8: The Girl-Child's Defiance

Kushtia Village – Madrasa at Dusk

The girl from the marketplace, Fatima, crouched outside the madrasa, etching equations into dirt with a stick. Saifullah, disguised again, knelt beside her.

"Why not join the boys?"

She glared. "The maulani says girls' brains are weak. But I solve problems faster than my brother!"

Saifullah handed her a slate. "Teach me."

She drew a complex irrigation grid. "The new canals flood our fields. Angles here"—she slashed the dirt—"would divert water."

He smiled. "You have the mind of an engineer."

Her mother yanked her away. "Forgive her, sahib. She forgets her place."

Saifullah watched them leave, torn. Allah gifted her talent. Yet tradition stifles it.

Section 9: The British Web

Fort William – Secret Chamber

Nihar Roy unrolled a scroll before Clive—a forged letter in Saifullah's hand, praising Eli Cohen as "a brother in arms."

"The ulema will call it apostasy," Nihar grinned. "Even his wife Ayesha will doubt him."

Clive lit a cigar. "Leak it to the maulana. Let the storm begin."

Section 10: The Nawab's Prayer

Hazarduari Palace – Private Mosque

Saifullah prostrated in the dim glow of an oil lamp, his forehead pressed to the cold marble.

Ya Allah, guide me. I walk a path of thorns. Every alliance risks my soul. Every reform divides my people.

A memory surfaced: his past life, debating secularism in a Dhaka café. How simple it was to judge rulers then.

A knock shattered the silence. Ayesha entered, her face pale.

"Mufti Ibrahim is dead. Poisoned. The ulema blame you."