_
"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_."