Father Manoel Pinheiro's clean-shaven face was grim and his lips set tightly against the brisk air as he pushed a path through the crowded alley, headed toward the riverside palace of Nadir Sharif. Around him large black cauldrons of frying bread filled the dawn with the aroma of oil and spice. He had slipped from the mission house at first light and, clasping his peaked black hat tightly over his forehead, he had tried to melt inconspicuously among the rattling bullock carts and noisy street vendors. Now he paused for breath and watched as a large white cow licked the few grains of rice from the begging bowl of a dozing leper. The image seemed to capture all the despair of India, and he suddenly felt himself overwhelmed by the enormity of the Church's burden. Before he could move on, a crowd of chanting Hindus jostled him against a wall as they poured into a small, garishly decorated temple brimming with poly-colored heathen idols. On either side Hindu fakirs sat listlessly, long white hair streaming down over their streaked faces, their limpid eyes devoid of God's understanding. He shook his head sadly as he made the sign of the cross over them, and found his heart near bursting.
On every hand, he told himself, the fields are ripe unto harvest, the flocks wanting a keeper. For every soul in this forgotten land we bring to God and the Church, a hundred, nay a thousand, are born into eternal darkness, damned forever. Our task is overwhelming, even with God's help.
He thought of the Holy Church, the Society of Jesus, and their long years of disappointment in India. But now, at last, it seemed their hopes and prayers might be nearing fulfillment. After all the years of humiliation and ignominy, there seemed a chance, a genuine chance, that Arangbar, the Great Moghul himself, would at last consent to be baptized into the Holy Church. After him, all of India would surely soon follow.
Father Pinheiro crossed himself again, and prayed silently that God would make him a worthy instrument of His will.
The burden of India was by now a Jesuit legend. It had been taken up when the first mission came to the court of Akman over three decades before. And even now the pagan fields of India remained, in many ways, the greatest challenge of the Society of Jesus and the Holy Church.
India had, it was true, been held in the grip of Portuguese sea power for many years before the first mission arrived in Agra. But Portuguese arms and trade had not served the work of the Church. They had served the greed of Portuguese merchants and the coffers of Portuguese royalty. The lost souls of India were denied the Grace of the Holy Church.
Then, in 1540, a priest named Ignatius Loyola, once a nobleman and a soldier, founded the Society of Jesus, whose dual purpose was to defend the Holy Church against the Protestant Reformation and begin preaching the True Faith to the pagan lands of Asia and the Americas. In 1542 the Society of Jesus reached Portuguese Goa, on the very shores of India, in the person of Francis Xavier, a close friend of Ignatius Loyola's from student days at the University of Paris.
With Goa as base of operations, the society had immediately pushed farther eastward, reaching Japan and Macao a few short years later. Paradoxically, it was India itself that had initially eluded their influence. Finally, in 1573, the Great Akman journeyed south and encountered the members of the Society of Jesus for the first time. He was awed by their learning and moral integrity, and soon thereafter he posted an envoy to Goa requesting that a Jesuit mission be sent to his court. Three Jesuit fathers traveled to Fatehpur Sekri.
The Jesuits' hopes soared when they were immediately invited to debate the orthodox Islamic mullahs at Akman's court. The leader of the mission, a soft-spoken Italian father with encyclopedic learning, knew the Quran well in translation and easily refuted the mullahs' absolutist arguments-to the obvious delight of Akman. It was only after several months at Fatehpur Sekri that the three learned fathers began to suspect that Akman's real purpose in inviting them was to have on hand skilled debaters for entertainment.
Akman may have had scant patience with Islam, but it had grown obvious he had no desire to become a Christian either. He was an intellectual who amused himself by questioning the ideas and teachings of all faiths, with the inevitable result that he always found something in each to affront his own reason. He was, in fact, beginning to form the notion that he himself was as great a leader as any of the spiritual teachers he had heard about, and accordingly should simply declare himself an object of worship. After a decade the three Jesuits finally conceded their first mission was a failure and abjectly returned to Goa.
Almost a decade later, in 1590, Akman again requested that Jesuit fathers be sent to his court. Once more a mission was sent, and once more its members eventually concluded Akman had no real intention of encouraging Christianity in India. The second mission was also abandoned.
There remained some, however, in Goa and in Rome, who believed the Great Moghul Akman still could be converted. Furthermore, as the Protestant countries began to venture into the Indies, the political usefulness of having Portuguese priests near the ruler of India became increasingly obvious. Thus, in 1595, a third mission was sent to Akman's court. Father Pinheiro remembered well their instructions upon departing Goa. They would convert Akman if they could; but equally important now, they would ensure that Portuguese trading interests were protected.
The Jesuit fathers drew close to Akman, became valued advisers, and found themselves being consulted on questions ranging from whether Jesus was the Son of God or merely a Prophet, to the advisability of smoking tobacco. Still, the only lasting achievement of the mission was to extract from Akman a firman granting Jesuits the right to free exercise of the Catholic religion. They wanted his soul, and through it the soul of India, but the most they ever attained was his protection. He died a royal skeptic, but a sovereign whose religious tolerance shocked the dogmatic sixteenth-century world.
Father Pinheiro paused to study the outline of the Red Fort against the morning sky and listened to the azan call to Islamic prayer sounding from a nearby mosque. He smiled to think that the schism between the rule of Arangbar and the rule of Islam might soon be complete. Like Akman, Arangbar had never bothered to hide his distaste for the mullahs who flooded his court. He collected Italian paintings of the Virgin for his palace, even scandalizing the mullahs by hanging one in the Diwan-i-Am, and whenever one of the Jesuit fathers journeyed to Goa, there was always a request for more Christian art. True the Moghul's understanding of blasphemy was erratic, as evidenced by a recent evening in the Diwan-i-Khas when, drunk and roaring with laughter, Arangbar had set a wager with the Jesuits on how long he could stand with his arms outstretched as a cross. But then he had built a church for the mission, and also provided them a house, which he now visited ever more frequently to secretly indulge his passion for forbidden pork.
A scant two months before, Arangbar had taken an action that sent the mission's hopes soaring. He had summoned the Jesuit fathers to baptize two of his young nephews, ordering the boys to become Christians. The mullahs had been outraged, immediately spreading the pernicious rumor he had done so merely to better remove them from the line of succession. In Goa, however, the mission was roundly congratulated on nearing its goal. If Arangbar became a Christian, many in his court and perhaps eventually all of India would someday follow.
This had all been before the arrival of the English heretic, Hawksworth. At the very moment when Arangbar's mind seemed within their grasp, there had now emerged the specter that all their work might be undone. Arangbar had treated the Englishman as though he were qualified to speak on theological matters and had even questioned him about the most Holy Sacrament, when the Church's doctrine regarding this Mystery had already been fully expounded to him by Father Sarmento himself. Arangbar had listened with seeming interest while the Englishman proceeded to tell him much that was contrary to the Truth and to Church teaching. When asked point blank, the Englishman had even denied that His Holiness, the pope, should be acknowledged head of the Universal Church, going on to characterize His Holiness' political concerns in almost scatological terms. Father Sarmento, normally the most forbearing of priests, was nearing despair.
Most disturbing of all, Arangbar had only last week asked the Englishman by what means the Portuguese fortress at the northern port of Diu could be recaptured by India. The Englishman had confided that he believed a blockade by a dozen English frigates, supported by an Indian land army of no more than twenty thousand, could force the Portuguese garrison to capitulate from hunger!
Clearly Arangbar was growing eccentric. The English heretic had beguiled him and was near to becoming a serious detriment to Portuguese interests. To make matters worse, there was the latest dispatch from Goa, which had arrived only the previous evening. Father Pinheiro had studied it well into the night, and finally concluded that the time had come to stop the Englishman. He also concluded it was time to make this unmistakably clear to Nadir Sharif. As the situation continued to deteriorate, only the influence of Nadir Sharif could still neutralize the Englishman.
Father Pinheiro moved on through the jostling street, occasionally swabbing his brow. And as he looked about him, he began to dream of the day there would be a Christian India. It would be the society's greatest triumph. What would it be like? What would Arangbar do to silence the heretical mullahs? Would the time come when India, like Europe, would require an Inquisition to purify the sovereignty of the Church?
One thing was certain. With a Catholic monarch in India, there would be no further English trade, no Dutch trade, no Protestant trade. The declining fortunes of Portuguese commerce at Goa, the Protestant challenge to Portuguese supremacy in the Indies, would both be permanently reversed in a single stroke.
The thought heartened him as he looked up to see the sandstone turrets of Nadir Sharif's palace gleaming in the morning sun.
"Father, it is always a pleasure to see you." Nadir Sharif bowed lightly and indicated a bolster. He did not order refreshments from the servants. "No matter what the hour."
"I realize the time is early. I wanted to find you at home. And to come here when there were the fewest possible eyes on the street." Pinheiro paused and then decided to sit. He was perspiring heavily from the walk, even though the real heat of the day lay hours ahead.
Nadir Sharif flinched at the Jesuit's school-book Persian and examined him with ill-concealed disdain, knowing word of his visit surely had already found the ears of the queen.
"Then I should ask the occasion for this unexpected pleasure." Nadir Sharif seated himself and discreetly examined the Jesuit's soiled black habit.
"The English trading fleet, Excellency. The news is most disturbing. I received a pigeon last evening from His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes. The armada he dispatched along the coast to sweep for the English fleet returned three days ago, finding nothing. The English may have eluded us. He has now ordered the armada to sail north from Goa, into the bay, but by now the English fleet could be nearing Surat, or perhaps they have veered north to the port of Cambay. His Excellency fears that they may possibly escape our patrols entirely and make landfall. He has asked me to inform you privately that the firman for English trade must be delayed at all costs, until the English fleet can be sighted and engaged."
"I have made every effort. The Viceroy knows that." Nadir Sharif casually adjusted the jewel on his turban. "It has been stopped so far."
"But if the fleet lands? And if the heretic English king has sent new gifts for His Majesty?" Pinheiro tried to maintain his dignity as he nervously wiped his face with the black fold of a sleeve.
"If the English do make landfall, and dispatch more gifts for His Majesty, I fear no power in Agra can stop him from signing the firman.'' Nadir Sharifs face assumed an expression of conciliatory resignation. "The English will undoubtedly make the trading firman a condition of further presents."
"You know that is unacceptable, Excellency." Pinheiro's eyes narrowed. "The mission cannot allow it. You know that as well as I."
"Forgive me, but I've always understood your mission here was not to concern itself with trade."
"The Holy Church is not engaged in trade, Excellency. But our position here is dependent, as you are well aware, on the fortunes of Goa. The two are entwined, as are all secular and spiritual aspects of life. Whatever disturbs one must inevitably affect the other. It cannot be otherwise."
"Obviously." Nadir Sharif stroked the tip of his moustache a moment in thought. "So what would you have me do? The English feringhi cannot be harmed. He drinks every evening with His Majesty."
"There are other ways to negate the heretic's influence. Perhaps the Englishman's… situation with His Majesty can be rendered less intimate. Perhaps he could be removed from favor. If only for a time."
"So you have come to ask me to work miracles for you, when you do nothing for yourself." Nadir Sharif rose and strolled to a latticework window. He studied the garden for a moment, then spoke without turning. "Have you advised His Majesty in explicit terms of the Viceroy's displeasure with the English intrusion into our… into Portuguese waters?"
"It has been made known. Many times."
"But have you suggested the consequences?" Nadir Sharif turned and gazed past Pinheiro, his eyes playing on the scalloped marble arch of the entryway.
"The consequences are obvious. The warships at Goa are capable of terminating all trade in the Indian Ocean if His Excellency so pleases."
"Then you should merely engage the English." Nadir Sharif consciously deleted the irony from his voice.
"That is an entirely separate matter. The English frigates are of a new design, very swift. They may possibly have eluded us for a time." Pinheiro's voice hardened. "But do not doubt our galleons are swifter than any of the trading vessels of His Majesty's fleet. India's own Red Sea trade continues only at the Viceroy's discretion."
"That is true enough. But are you prepared to demonstrate your… displeasure." Nadir Sharif revolved back to the window. "I do not think His Majesty actually believes the Viceroy would ever take hostile action."
"What are you suggesting?" Pinheiro's voice betrayed momentary disbelief.
"Nothing that you have not already brought to His Majesty's attention. But possibly he does not believe you have the conviction, or the strength, to carry it through. The English feringhi constantly brags to him of English superiority at sea, hinting that his king will soon drive Portugal from the Indian Ocean. I've heard it so often myself I confess I'm near to believing him too."
"I can assure you that the protection, and control, of India's ports will always remain in Portuguese hands."
"Then you would still have me believe you have the power to impound Indian shipping, even a vessel owned by His Majesty, thereby exposing the English as helpless to prevent it?" Nadir Sharif seemed absorbed in the garden, his hands clasped easily behind him in perfect repose.
"Of course." Pinheiro stood dazed at the implications of Nadir Sharifs words. He paused for a moment, digesting them. "Do I understand you to be suggesting the Viceroy take hostile action against one of His Majesty's own trading ships?"
"You have contested the Englishman with words, and he seems to be winning." Nadir Sharif turned and examined Pinheiro. "Your Viceroy is undoubtedly aware that Her Majesty, Queen Janahara, is equally disturbed by the Englishman. She too is concerned with the possible effects on her… trading arrangements if the English gain undue influence."
"Would she be willing to speak to His Majesty?"
"Again you talk merely of words. What have they gained you?"
"Father Sarmento would never consent to an overt action. He would be too fearful of the possible consequences to the mission."
"Bold measures are for bold men. I think His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes, understands boldness. And His Majesty understands boldness better than anyone." Nadir Sharif paused. "It may be of interest to His Excellency to know that His Majesty currently has a vessel en route from the Red Sea, with cargo owned by the mother of His Majesty, the dowager Maryam Zamani. It is due to make landfall within the week, if it has managed to hold its schedule. The vessel's safety is, quite naturally, of utmost concern to His Majesty…"
"I think I understand." Father Pinheiro again swabbed the moisture from his brow. "But Father Sarmento…"
"What possible concern could Father Sarmento have with decisions made by His Excellency, Miguel Vaijantes? He is the Viceroy." Nadir Sharif nodded toward a pudgy eunuch hovering at the doorway, who immediately entered with a tray of betel leaves, signaling that the meeting was adjourned.
"His Excellency will undoubtedly be most appreciative of your thoughts." Pinheiro paused. "Still, wouldn't it be prudent to advise Her Majesty, lest she mistake our Viceroy's intentions?"
"I will attend to it." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "You must be aware, however, that if His Majesty chooses to respond irresponsibly, I will know nothing about any action that may be taken. The Viceroy must weather his own seas."
"Naturally." Pinheiro bowed. "You have always been a friend. I thank you, and bless you in God's name."
"Your thanks are sufficient." Nadir Sharif smiled again and watched as the Jesuit was led through the scalloped doorway by the waiting eunuch.
Only when he turned back to the window did he realize his palms were drenched with perspiration.
Arangbar moved groggily through the arched corridor carrying a fresh silver cup of wine and quietly humming the motif of his favorite Hindustani raga. His afternoon nap in the zenana had been fitful, unusually so, and when he finally admitted to himself why, he had dismissed the two young women who waited to pleasure him, retrieved his jeweled turban, and waved aside the attending eunuchs. He had announced he wanted to stroll among the fruit trees in the courtyard of the Anguri Bagh, which lay down the marble steps from the Khas Mahal, the breezy upper pavilion of the zenana. But when he reached the trees, he had turned and slipped through his private doorway leading to the women's apartments in the lower level of the fort.
The zenana was quiet, even the eunuchs were dozing, and no one noticed when he passed along the shadowed afternoon corridor toward the circular staircase leading to the lower apartments. As he began to descend the curved stone steps, he felt his legs momentarily grow unsteady, and he paused to rest against the hard polished wall, tightening his light brocade cloak against the cooler air and taking a short sip of wine for warmth. Then he continued on, carefully feeling for each step in the dim light of the overhead oil lamps.
He emerged on the next level and stopped to catch his breath on the balcony that opened out over the Jamuna. This was the level where he had built private apartments for his favorite women, and behind him was the large room, with a painted cupola ceiling high above a large rose-shaped marble fountain, which he had granted to one of his Hindu wives. (Now he could no longer recall precisely who she was; she had reached thirty some time past and he had not summoned her to his couch in many years.) Since she was a devout Hindu, he had ordered it decorated with brilliantly colored scenes from the Ramayana. The room itself was cooled by a high waterfall in the rear that murmured down an inclined and striated marble slab. Stairways on either side of the room curved around to an overhead balcony, directly above where he now stood, which was the post where eunuchs waited when the women came to cool themselves by the fountain.
The balcony where he now stood jutted out from the fort, supported by thick sandstone columns, and from his position he could look along the side of the fort and see the Jasmine Tower of Queen Janahara. When he realized he also could be seen, he instinctively stepped back into the cool corridor.
The women were inside their apartments, asleep, and the corridor empty as he began to descend the circular stairs leading to the next level below, the quarters for eunuchs and female servants. As he rounded the last curve of the stair and emerged into the light, three eunuchs stared up in shock from their game of cards. It vaguely registered that they probably were gambling, which he had strictly prohibited in the zenana, but he decided to ignore it this afternoon.
The circular pasteboard cards of the eunuchs' scattered across the stone floor as they hurried to teslim. He paused to drink again from the cup and absently studied the painted faces on the cards dropped by the eunuch nearest him. It was not a bad hand. Lying on the marble were four high cards from the bishbar, powerful, suits-the lord of horses, the king of elephants, the king of infantry, and the throned wazir of the fort-and three from the kambar, weaker, suits-the king of snakes, the king of divinities, and the throned queen. He stared for a moment at the king of elephants, the suit he always preferred to play, and wondered at the happenstance that the king had fallen beneath the queen, whose face covered his golden crown. He shrugged it away as coincidence and turned toward the stairs leading to the next lower level.
Two more levels remained.
The air was increasingly musty now, noticeably smoky from the lamps, and he hurried on, reaching the next landing without stopping. The windows on this level had shrunk to only a few hand spans, and now they were secured with heavy stone latticework. The eunuchs were arguing at the other end of the corridor and failed even to notice him. He told himself to try to remember this, and drank again as he paused to listen to the metrical splash of the Jamuna lapping against the outer wall. Then he stepped quietly down the last flight of stairs.
The final level. As he emerged into the corridor, two guarding eunuchs who had been dozing leaped to their feet and drew swords before recognizing him. Both fell on their face in teslim, their turbans tumbling across the stone floor.
Arangbar said nothing, merely pointed toward a doorway at the end of the corridor. The startled eunuchs strained against their fat as they lifted torches from the walls and then turned officiously to lead the way. As they walked, Arangbar paused to stare through an arched doorway leading into a large domed room off the side of the hall. A dozen eunuchs were inside, some holding torches while others laced a white cotton rope through a wooden pulley attached to the lower side of a heavy wooden beam that spanned the room, approximately ten feet above the floor.
The two eunuchs with Arangbar also stopped, wondering if His Majesty had come to supervise the hanging that afternoon of the two zenana women who had been discovered in a flagrant sexual act in the Shish Mahal, the mirrored zenana baths.
Arangbar studied the hanging room for a moment with glazed eyes, not remembering that he had sentenced the women that same morning, and then waved the guards on along the corridor, past the doors that secured dark cells. These were the cells used to confine women who had broken zenana regulations.
At the end of the corridor was a door wider than the others, and behind it was a special cell, with a window overlooking the Jamuna. He walked directly to the door and drank again from his cup as he ordered it opened. The guards were there at once, keys jangling. The door was massive and thick, and it creaked heavily on its hinges as they pushed it slowly inward.
From the gloom came the unmistakable fragrance of musk and sandalwood. He inhaled it for a moment and it seemed to penetrate his memory, calling up long forgotten pleasures. Grasping the door for support, he moved past the bowing guards and into the cell. There, standing by the small barred window, her face caught in a shaft of afternoon sun, was Shirin.
Her eyes were carefully darkened with kohl and her mouth red and fresh. She wore a gossamer scarf decorated with gold thread, and a thin skirt that betrayed the curve of her thighs against the outline of her flowered trousers. The musty air of the room was immersed in her perfume, as though by her very being she would defy the walls of her prison. She looked just as he had remembered.
She turned and stared at him for a moment, seeming not to believe what she saw. Then her eyes hardened.
"Shall I teslim before my sentence?"
Arangbar said nothing as he examined her wordlessly, sipping slowly from his almost-empty cup. Now more than ever he realized why she had once been his favorite. She could bring him to ecstasy, and then recite Persian poetry to him for hours. She had been exquisite.
"You're as beautiful as ever. Too beautiful. What do you expect me to do with you?"
"I expect that I will die, Your Majesty. That, I think, is the usual sentence for the women who disobey you."
"You could have stayed in Surat, where you were sent. Or gone on to Goa with the husband I gave you. But instead you returned here. Why?" Arangbar eased himself onto the stone bench beside the door.
"I don't think you would understand, Majesty."
"Did you come because of the Inglish feringhi? I learned yesterday that you conspired to meet with him. It displeased me very much."
"He was not responsible, Majesty. I met with him because I chose to. But I came to Agra to be with Samad again." Her voice began to tremble slightly. "Samad is guilty of nothing, except defiance of the Shi'ite mullahs. You know that as well as I. If you want to hear me beg for him, I will."
Arangbar seemed not to notice the tear that stained the kohl beneath one eye. "It was a death sentence for you to disobey me and come back. Perhaps you actually want to die."
"Is there nothing you would die for, Majesty?"
Arangbar stared for a moment at the window, its hexagonal grillwork throwing a pattern across his glazed eyes. He seemed to be searching for words. "Yes, perhaps I might die for India. Perhaps someday soon I will. But I would never die for the glory of Islam." His gaze came back to Shirin. "And certainly not for some half-naked Sufi mullah."
"Samad is not a mullah." By force of will she held any trace of shrillness from her voice. "He is a Persian poet. One of the greatest ever. You know that. He defies the Shi'ites because he will not bow to their dogma."
"The Shi'ites want his head." Arangbar examined his empty cup and tossed it to the floor, listening as the silver rang hard against the stone. "It seems a small price for tranquility."
"Whose tranquility? Theirs?" The tears were gone now, her eyes again defiant.
"Mine. Every day I'm flooded with petitions about this or that heresy. It wearies and consumes me. Samad ignored the laws of Islam, and he has followers."
" You ignore the laws of Islam."
Arangbar laughed. "It's true. Between us, I despise the mullahs. You know I once told them I had decided to become a Christian, because I enjoyed eating pork and the Prophet denied it to all men. The next day they brought the Quran and declared although it was true pork was denied to men, the Prophet said nothing specifically about what a king could eat. So there was no need for me to become a Christian." He paused and sobered. "But Samad is not a king. He is a well-known Sufi. The mullahs claim that if he's dead, the inspiration for heresy will die with him. They say his death will serve as an example. I hear this everywhere, even from Her Majesty."
"Her Majesty?" Shirin searched for his eyes as she spoke, but they were shrouded in shadow. "Does she make laws for you now?"
"She disrupts my tranquility with all her talk about Islam and Shi'ites. Perhaps it's age. She never used to talk about the Shi'ites. But now she wants to bring the Islam of Persia to India. She forbade Sunni mullahs even to attend the wedding. But if it pleases her, what does it matter? I despise them all."
"But why Samad? Why sentence him to death?"
"Frankly I don't really care about this poet, either way. But he has not tried to help himself. When I allowed him to confront the mullahs who accused him, he refused to recite the Kalima, 'There is no God but Allah.'"
"What did he say?"
"Perhaps just to spite them, he would only recite the first phrase, 'There is no God,' the negation. He refused to recite the rest, the affirmation. He said he was still searching for truth. That when he finally saw God he would recite the remainder; that to affirm His existence without proof would be giving false evidence. I thought the mullahs would strangle him on the spot." Arangbar laughed to himself as he watched her turn again to the window. "You have to admit that qualifies as blasphemy, by any measure. So if the mullahs want him so badly, why not let them have him?"
"But Samad is a mystic, a pantheist." Shirin returned her eyes to Arangbar. "For him God is everywhere, not just where the mullahs choose to put Him. Do you remember those quatrains in his Rubaiyat that say, "Here in the garden the sunshine glows,
A Presence moves in all that grows.
He is the lover, the belov'd too.
He is the bramble and the rose.
We know Him when our hearts are moved;
He, our lover and our loved.
Open your eyes with joy and see
The hundred ways His love is proved."
"I've seen his poetry. It sings of the love of some God, although his God sounds a bit too benign to be Allah. But I also know his Rubaiyat will not save him. It may make him immortal someday, but he'll be long since dead by then."
Arangbar rose unsteadily and moved beside her, staring out onto the glinting surface of the Jamuna. For a moment he watched a fleet of barges pass, piled high with dark bundles of indigo. "I believe I myself will die someday soon. I can almost feel my strength ebbing. But I hope I'll be remembered as my father Akman is, a ruler who tolerated all faiths. I've protected Hindus from the bigoted followers of Mohammed's religion, who would convert them forcibly to Islam, and I've allowed all religions to build places of worship. Did you know I've even built a church for the Portuguese Jesuits, who have to buy most of their converts with bribes? I even gave them a stipend, since they would starve otherwise. They tell me they're astonished I allow so much religious freedom here, since it's unheard of in Europe. But I can do all this only if I remain the nominal defender of Islam. Islam holds the power in India, and as India's ruler I must acknowledge that. I can defy the mullahs myself now and then. But I can't permit your Sufi mystic to do it too. There's a limit."
"You can do anything. If you wish. The orthodox mullahs have always hated mystics. The Shi'ite mullahs are men who live on hate. You see it burning in their eyes. They even hate their own women, can't you see? They keep them prisoner, claiming that's the way they honor and respect them. The mullahs even resent that Samad allows me to come into his presence without a veil."
"They say he's a poison in Islam."
"Yes, his example is poison. His poetry is filled with love. The mullahs cannot bear it, since their own lives are filled with hate. God help India if it ever becomes an 'Islamic' state. There'll be mobs in the streets murdering Hindus in the name of 'God.' Is that the tranquility you want?"
"I want to die in peace. Just like your poet. And I want to be remembered, for the good I've done for India." Arangbar paused, seeming to search on the stone ledge for his cup. "I think Samad will be remembered too. Tomorrow I'll make him famous. Let him live on through his words. He knows, and I know, that he must die. We understand each other perfectly. I can't disappoint him now."
Arangbar suddenly recalled the high-ranking Rajput raja who had asked for an early audience in the Diwan-i-Khas, and he turned and moved unsteadily toward the door. When he reached it, he revolved and looked back sadly at Shirin.
"I found myself dreaming about you this afternoon. I don't know why. So I decided to come and see you, alone. I didn't come to talk about Samad. It's you I'm uncertain about. Her Majesty wants you hanged. But I cannot yet find the courage to sentence you." Arangbar continued on wearily toward the door. "Where will it all end?" He paused and, as though remembering something, turned again. "Jadar is plotting something against me, I sense it. But I don't know what he can do. Recently I've heard rumors you're part of it. Have you turned against me?"
"If you kill Samad, I will defy you with every power I have."
"Then perhaps I should execute you." He stared at her, trying to focus. "But you have no powers left. Unless you're plotting something with the Inglish. If you are, then I will kill you both." He turned to leave, tightening his cloak against the chill. The guards saw him emerge and hurried from the far end of the corridor. Arangbar watched them for a moment, then turned and looked one last time at Shirin. "Samad will die tomorrow. You will have to wait."
Brian Hawksworth's lean frame towered above the crowd, conspicuous in jerkin and seaboots. He had heard the rumor and he had come to the plaza to watch, mingling among the turbaned assembly of nobles, shopkeepers, mullahs, and assorted street touts. His presence was immediately noted by all, especially the crippled beggars in dirty brown dhotis, who dragged themselves through the crowd, their leprosy-withered hands upturned, calling for a pice in the name of Allah. They knew from experience that, however ragged a feringhi might appear, he was always more likely to be moved by their plight than a wealthy Indian merchant.
The plaza was a confined area between the steep eastern side of the Red Fort and the outer wall of the fortress. Beyond the fortress wall lay the wide Jamuna River, while high above, and with a commanding view of the plaza, sat Arangbar, watching from the black throne at the outer edge of the Diwan-i-Khas. Next to him sat Queen Janahara and Allaudin. The day was Tuesday and the sun was approaching midday. As Hawksworth pushed his way to the front of the crowd, the last elephant fight of the morning had just begun.
Two First-ranked bull elephants were locked head to head in the dusty square. Their blunted tusks were wreathed with brass rings, and the back of each was covered with a brocaded canvas on which sat two riders. Perched on each animal's neck and directing it was its mahout, and on its rump sat its Second-ranked keeper, whose assignment was to urge the animal to greater frenzy.
The dusty air was alive with a festive clanging from large bells attached to each elephant's harness. Hawksworth noticed that a long chain, called the lor langar, was secured to the left foreleg of each elephant and circled over its back, where it was attached to a heavy log held by the second rider. Both elephants also had other keepers who ran alongside holding long poles, at the end of which was crossed a foot- long piece of paper-covered bamboo. Nearby another keeper stood holding a smoldering taper.
Hawksworth watched in awe as the elephants backed away and lunged together again and again, tusk resounding against tusk, often rearing on their hind legs as each strained for advantage.
"Do you have a favorite, feringhi Sahib?" A brown-skinned man with a slightly soiled turban was tugging at Hawksworth's sleeve. "There is still time to wager."
"No thanks." Hawksworth moved to brush him aside.
"But it is our habit in India to wager on the elephants, Sahib. Perhaps the Sahib does not yet know Indian customs?" He pushed closer, directly in Hawksworth's face. His few remaining teeth were stained red with betel. "I myself am a poor judge of elephants, l can never guess which will win. Still I love to wager. May Allah forgive me."
"I'm not here to bet."
"Just this once, Sahib. For my weakness." He turned and pointed through the dust. "Although the dark elephant is smaller and already growing tired, I will even offer to bet on him to give you, a guest in India, a chance to win. So when you return to your feringhistan someday, you will say there is one honest man in India. I will wager you ten rupees the dark one will be declared the winner." The man backed away for an instant and discreetly assessed Hawksworth's worn jerkin with a quick glance. "If ten rupees are too much, I will wager you five."
Hawksworth studied the two elephants again. The dark one was slightly smaller, and did seem to be growing tired. The other elephant, larger and brown, had a mahout less skilled but he also clearly was gaining the advantage.
"All right. I'll take the brown." Hawksworth reached for his purse, feeling slightly relieved that it was still there. "And I'll lay twenty rupees."
"As pleases the Sahib." The man smiled broadly. "The Sahib must be a very rich man in his feringhistan."
Even as he spoke, the large brown elephant wheeled and slammed its black adversary in the side with its tusks, barely missing the leg of the mahout. The black elephant staggered backward, against the side of the fort. It was now clearly on the defensive, as the larger elephant began slamming it repeatedly in the side.
Hawksworth found himself caught up in the taste of imminent victory.
"Charkhi! Charkhi!" A cry began to rise from the crowd. The man holding the burning taper looked up toward Arangbar, who signaled lightly with his hand. Then the men holding the long poles tipped them toward the taper, and the two ends of papered bamboo were quickly ignited.
The bamboo sticks started to whirl like pinwheels, popping and throwing sparks from the gunpowder packed inside. The keepers turned and thrust the poles under the face of the brown elephant, sending him rearing backward in fright.
Although the black elephant now lay crushed against the wall, the brown was too distracted by the sudden noise to press his advantage. Instead he wheeled away from the exploding bamboo and began to charge wildly toward the edge of the crowd. Retreating bodies pummeled about Hawksworth, and there were frightened calls of "lor langar." As the elephant neared the crowd, its second rider, with a look of infinite regret, threw down the log chained to its forefoot. The chain whipped against its leg, and in moments it was tangled and stumbling.
By then the smaller black elephant had recovered its feet and came galloping in chase. In moments he was there, slamming his larger adversary with his tusks. The brown elephant stumbled awkwardly, tangled in the chain, and then collapsed into the dust. With a victory yell the mahout of the black elephant pulled a cord releasing a canvas cloth over its eyes. The heaving animal immediately began to gentle, and its jubilant keepers ran forward to lead it away.
"Your elephant lost, Sahib. My regrettings. May I have the twenty rupees?"
"But it was fixed!" Hawksworth held tightly to his purse. "The brown was clearly winning before he was frightened by the damned fireworks."
"Did I neglect to tell the Sahib that the black elephant is a khasa, from His Majesty's private stable? His Majesty does not like to see his elephants lose."
"You conniving bastard."
"His Majesty makes the rules. Sahib. It is permitted to use the charkhi fireworks once during a contest, if His Majesty judges that the elephants need to be disciplined. May Allah grant you better luck next week." The man stood waiting, hand outstretched.
"You're a damned thief."
"That is a harsh judgment. Sahib. I am merely a poor man who must live. If you wait, you will see what happens to criminals here."
With a sigh of resignation Hawksworth began to count out the twenty silver rupees, trying to look as sporting as he could muster. He found himself in grudging admiration of the swindler's style. Then he suddenly realized what the man had said.
The rumors must have been right.
"You mean there'll be an execution?"
"This is the day. His Majesty always has executions on Tuesday, after the elephant fights."
Hawksworth looked up to see another bull elephant being ridden into the plaza. He had sharpened tusks, each decorated with a single heavy brass ring, and was guided by a single rider, a fierce-looking, unshaven mahout. The elephant was festooned with bells, but there were no chains about any of its legs.
At the other end of the square a balding man, with a short black beard and a ragged green cloak, was being dragged forward by Imperial guards. Hawksworth noticed that his arms had been bound behind him, by a heavy cord circled just above the elbows. His eyes brimmed with fear.
The guards shoved him struggling toward the middle of the plaza. When they reached the central clearing, the officer of the guard knocked him to his knees with the butt end of a lance. The stunned prisoner turned to watch in terror as the elephant lumbered toward him, flapping its ears in anticipation.
"He was sentenced yesterday, Sahib."
"What did he do? Steal some nobleman's sheep? In England that's a hanging offense."
"Oh no, Sahib, Islamic law does not give the death penalty for theft, unless a thief is notorious. And even then he must be caught in the act. If it is proved you have stolen something worth more than a certain amount, then the sentence is to have your right hand cut off. But for that to happen there must either be two witnesses or the thief must himself confess. Islamic law is not cruel; it is just."
"What's this man accused of then?"
"He was tried and found guilty under Islamic law of qatlul-'amd, a willful murder. His name is Kaliyan, and he is a Hindu and the son of Bijai Ganga Ram. He is accused of having kept a common Muslim woman as his concubine, and when the woman's father discovered this and went to reclaim her to restore his family's honor, this man murdered him and buried him behind his house. He confessed the act yesterday morning before His Majesty."
The elephant moved with calm deliberation toward the kneeling prisoner, guided by the mahout, until it towered directly over the quivering man. Suddenly it whipped its trunk about the man's torso and lifted him squirming into the air, holding him firmly against its banded tusks. It swung the screaming man back and forth in delight for a long moment, seeming to relish the torment, then dashed him violently to the ground.
The prisoner hit on his back, gasping, and weakly tried to roll to his feet. Before he could gain his footing, the elephant was there again, seizing him once more with its leathery trunk and again slamming him to the ground.
"The elephant will torment him for a time. Sahib. Before the moment of death." The small brown man's eyes shone in anticipation.
Again the prisoner was lifted and again dashed to the ground. Now he no longer attempted to struggle; he merely lay moaning in a broken voice.
Then the mahout shouted something to the elephant and the animal suddenly reared above the man, crushing down on him with both front feet. There was a final, rending scream and then silence, as blood sprayed over the dust. The elephant reared again, and again mashed the lifeless body. Then again. Finally the animal placed one foot on the man's lower torso and seized his crushed chest with its trunk, wrenching upward and rending the body in two. Maddened by the smell of blood, he whipped the torn half upward and slammed it once more against the hard earth. Finally the mahout tapped the blood-spattered elephant with his ankus and began guiding it toward the back of the square. The crowd, which had held a spellbound silence, erupted into cheers.
"That's the most brutal death I've ever seen." Hawksworth found his voice only after the initial shock had passed.
"It's why so few men dare to commit murder, Sahib. But His Majesty is very just. All criminals are given a full Islamic trial before they are executed."
Hawksworth looked up to see yet another man being led into the plaza. The cheers of the crowd died abruptly. He wore only a loincloth, which was pure white, and his hands were bound not behind him but in front, secured through a large wooden clamp that had been locked together like European stocks. Hawksworth took one look and felt his own groin tighten.
"All praise to Allah the Merciful. And to the Holy Prophet, on whom be peace," one of the white-bearded mullahs shouted through the silence. He wore a gray turban, a dingy collarless shirt that reached to his knees, and over that a long black vest. He carried a staff and was barefoot. Other mullahs clustered around him immediately and joined his call.
"Murder! Murder!" Another voice began to chant, from a young man standing near Hawksworth. Then other young men with him took up the cry and began to surge forward. They were fresh-faced, with clean white shirts and trousers, and they awkwardly began to brandish short swords.
Imperial guards immediately threw a line across the crowd and held the young men back with short pikes. While the crowd watched, the prisoner continued to walk alone and unescorted toward the center of the square.
Hawksworth studied the face again, the deep sad eyes above a flowing white beard, and there was no doubt. He turned to the man standing beside him.
"Do you know who that is?"
"Of course, Sahib. He's the heretic poet Samad. Did you hear that he denied the existence of Allah in an Islamic court? He has been sentenced to death."
"Who are those men with the swords?"
"They're his disciples. I think they came today to try to save him."
Hawksworth turned to see the elephant again being urged forward.
"What about… what about the Persian woman I heard was arrested with him?"
"I do not think she has been executed yet, Sahib. They say she will be hanged, secretly, in the fort. Women are not executed by elephant."
"When…" Hawksworth struggled to contain his voice. "When do they say she'll be hanged?"
"Perhaps in a week or two. Perhaps she is already dead." He moved forward to watch. "What do poor Believers know of justice inside the fort? But the heretic Samad will die for all to see, so there will be no rumors that he still lives. Already there are stories in Agra that he had escaped to Persia."
Samad had reached the center of the square. As the elephant approached, he turned to the crowd of young men, raising his bound hands toward them in a gesture of recognition.
"Do not grieve for this weak clay." His voice was sonorous, hypnotic, and the crowd fell curiously quiet. "Grieve for yourselves, you who must travel on a short while, sorrowing still."
The crowd erupted again, the mullahs and many others urging his death, the young followers decrying it. Again he lifted his hands, and his voice seemed to bring silence around it.
"I say to you do not grieve. You will all soon know far greater sorrow. Soon death will lay his dark hand across the city of Agra, upon Muslim and Hindu alike, upon woman and child. Many will perish without cause. Therefore grieve not for me. Grieve for yourselves, when death will descend upon your doorsteps, there to take the innocent. Sorrow for your own."
The crowd had listened in hushed silence. Then a bearded mullah shouted "Death to the heretic" and others took up the cry.
Samad watched the elephant quietly as it continued to lumber forward. When it reached him, he bowed to it with an ironic smile. The mahout looked upward toward the black throne of the Diwan-i-Khas, where Arangbar and Janahara sat waiting. Arangbar turned to the queen, with what seemed a question, and she replied without moving her stare from the court below. Arangbar paused a moment, then signaled the mahout to proceed. The bearded mahout saluted the Moghul, then urged the elephant forward with his sharp ankus.
The elephant flapped its bloodstained ears in confusion but did not move.
The mahout goaded it again and shouted something in its ear, but it merely waved its trunk and trumpeted.
"Merciful Allah. The elephant does not smell his crime." The small man caught Hawksworth's questioning look. "The Great Akman believed elephants would not kill an innocent man, that they can always smell a man's guilt. But I have never before seen one refuse to kill a prisoner. I think Samad must be a wizard, who has entranced the animal."
"Innocent," a young man from the group of disciples yelled out above the silence.
The mahout goaded the elephant once more, but still it stood unmoving.
"Innocent." More cries went up from Samad's young followers, and again they pressed forward, swords in hand. In moments the plaza became a battleground, blood staining the earth as the Imperial guards began turning their pikes against the line of disciples. Then others in the crowd, mullahs leading them, broke through and joined the battle against the young men. Sword rang against sword and calls to Allah rent the air.
Samad stood quietly watching as the battle edged toward him. Then suddenly a group of bearded mullahs broke from the crowd and surged toward him, swords drawn. Hawksworth instinctively reached for his own weapon, but the man beside him caught his arm. He looked down to see a small, rust-handled katar pointed against his chest.
"This is the will of Allah. An infidel must not interfere."
The mullahs had formed a ring around Samad. He stood silently, waiting, as the leader stepped forward and thrust a long sword into the bare skin of his lower stomach. He jerked but did not fall, standing tall as another swung a sharp blade across his open neck. His head dropped to one side and he slumped forward, as two more men thrust swords into his belly. In seconds he disappeared beneath a crowd of black cloaks.
From a low latticework window down the east side of the Red Fort, past the Jasmine Tower and many levels down the Khas Mahal, it was just possible to see the center of the plaza. A woman stood by the window watching as the crowd turned on the young men and, one by one, cut them down. Then she saw a bloodstained body being hoisted above a black-cloaked assembly and carried triumphantly toward the river gate.
There had been tears as Shirin watched. But as she turned away, toward the darkness of the cell, her eyes were hard and dry.