The Moghul Part 88

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 G.o.d but Allah.'"

"What did he say?"

"Perhaps just to spite them, he would only recite the first phrase, 'There is no G.o.d,' the negation. He refused to recite the rest, the affirmation. He said he was still searching for truth. That when he finally saw G.o.d 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." s.h.i.+rin returned her eyes to Arangbar. "For him G.o.d 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 G.o.d, although his G.o.d 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 pa.s.s, 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 wors.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+'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. G.o.d help India if it ever becomes an 'Islamic' state. There'll be mobs in the streets murdering Hindus in the name of 'G.o.d.' 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 s.h.i.+rin.

"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 s.h.i.+rin. "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 a.s.sembly of n.o.bles, shopkeepers, mullahs, and a.s.sorted 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 bra.s.s 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 a.s.signment 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 a.s.sessed 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.