‘I have left you till last, Mirak Beg, so that you could witness the punishment meted out to your soldiers. Though they did wrong and have paid the price, you, as their leader, bear the responsibility for their shameful acts.You have freely admitted your guilt but that will not save you . . . Your acts have put a stain on my honour that only your death will cleanse.What is more, you will not die by the axe. The means of your execution will fit your crime. Woman – come closer.’
Humayun gestured to Sita, the spice merchant’s wife, who wrapped in a dark blue sari was standing to one side. She had not flinched from watching the amputations and now she would see true imperial justice, Humayun thought. The punishment he was about to pronounce on Mirak Beg had come to him in his dreams and its appropriateness pleased him. It would come as a surprise to all – he had not even told Kasim or Baisanghar, both standing by the throne and, like the rest of his courtiers, dressed in red as he had commanded.
‘On your knees, Mirak Beg.’ The chieftain looked almost surprised as if until now he’d not believed Humayun would kill him. The white scar on his upper lip almost disappeared as the blood seemed to drain from his face, which now had a waxy sheen. He licked his lips, then, finding his courage again, spoke out firmly for all to hear.
‘Majesty . . . I fought for you at Panipat and later in Gujarat . . . I have always been loyal to you. All I did was seek some sport with a fat, cowardly merchant. That does not merit death. I and my men are warriors, yet since Gujarat you’ve given us no fighting . . . no conquests . . . you spend your time eating opium and gazing at the stars when you should be leading your armies. That’s what we came from our homeland for . . . that’s what you promised us . . . the sound of our horses’ hooves pounding on the earth as we rode from victory to victory . . .’
‘Enough!’ Raising his hand, Humayun signalled to the two executioners. They put down their axes and one of them picked up a small sack that had been placed against a nearby pillar. Then, as Humayun’s guards held Mirak Beg by the shoulders, one of the executioners went behind him, wrenched back his head and forced his mouth open. The other man dug his hand into the sack. Humayun could smell the sharp tang of the coarse-ground turmeric and pepper as he took a fistful of the bright yellow powder and crammed it into Mirak Beg’s gaping mouth.
Mirak Beg at once began to choke. His streaming eyes bulged from his head as a second, then a third fistful was rammed through his open jaws down into his throat. His face was purpling now and strings of yellow saliva were dribbling from his tortured mouth while mucus streamed from his nostrils. Desperately he fought to get free of the strong arms holding him down and to struggle to his feet, kicking out with his legs like a man being hanged.
From all around Humayun heard gasps. Kasim had turned away and Baisanghar too was averting his gaze. Even Sita was looking shocked, one tightly curled hand raised to her mouth and her eyes round. A few more seconds and it would be over. For one last time, Mirak Beg forced his streaming eyes to open and for a moment they looked directly into Humayun’s, and then his body went still.
Humayun rose. ‘The punishment has fitted the crime. And so will all who transgress my laws suffer.’ Stepping down from the dais on which his golden throne, his
gaddi
– draped in red velvet to mark the day of Mars – stood and flanked by his guards, Humayun made his way out of the room. For a few seconds there was silence, then behind him he heard a babble of voices as his courtiers once more found their tongues.
It was early evening now. Above the darkening Jumna, a sliver of moon was already rising, casting its silver light upon the riverbank where oxen and camels were drinking their fill. He would visit Salima. He had done so less often recently, absorbed in his opium dreams. At the thought of her soft, golden-hued body, he smiled.
Salima was lying on a silver brocade divan while one of her waiting women traced intricate designs on her slim feet with henna paste. All she was wearing was the jewelled belt Humayun had chosen for her from the plunder he had captured in Gujarat.
That campaign seemed so long ago now – like something from another life. Into his mind came Mirak Beg’s accusing words ‘You’ve given us no conquests . . . You spend your time eating opium and gazing at the stars.’ Mirak Beg had deserved to die, but perhaps there had been some truth in his accusations. What would his father have said about the way he was governing, even about the amount of opium he was consuming? Perhaps, as Kasim and Khanzada had urged, he should use less of the drug to enable him to devote more time to those around him. But things had changed, hadn’t they? The Moghuls’ wild, nomadic days were over. He was the ruler of an empire and it was no one’s business but his own that he was finding new ways of ruling, new sources of comfort and inspiration. The stars whose radiance was brighter even than the Koh-i-Nur would not let him down.
Nor would Salima. As her women hurried from the room, she rose from her couch. Slowly, caressingly she began to loosen his red robes, running her fingers over the hard muscle of his arms and shoulders beneath the soft silk. ‘My emperor,’ she was whispering. He wound his hands in the long black hair spilling over her bare breasts and pulled her to him, hungry for the pleasures they would enjoy until – at last – with salty sweat running down their bodies they would collapse exhausted against one another.
A few hours later, Humayun was lying by Salima’s side. A soft breeze was blowing through the open casement and a pale light was already rising in the eastern sky. Salima murmured something and then, turning her silken hip to his, returned to her dreams. But for some reason, sleep had eluded Humayun. Each time he’d closed his eyes, he saw Mirak Beg’s distorted, choking mouth foaming with yellow spittle and his panic-stricken eyes half bursting from his head. He should have taken some of Gulrukh’s wine to banish these disturbing images but that was in his own apartment. Nevertheless, he could still ease his restless mind. Reaching for the gold locket studded with amethysts hanging from a chain around his neck, he extracted some opium pellets and, pouring water into a cup, swallowed them down. The familiar bitter taste caught at the back of his throat but then the drowsy, languorous warmth began to steal through him. With his eyelids at last growing heavy, Humayun stretched out. The soothing sweetness of the sandalwood oil with which Salima loved to anoint her body filled his nostrils and he began to drift into sleep. But only moments later – or so it felt to Humayun – he heard a female voice urgently calling his name.
‘Majesty . . . Majesty . . . a messenger has come.’
Dazed, Humayun sat up. Where was he? Looking around he saw Salima, sitting up now beside him and pulling on a pink silk robe to conceal her nakedness. But it wasn’t her who’d woken him. It was one of the
haram
attendants, Barlas – a squat woman with a face wrinkled as a walnut.
‘Forgive me, Majesty.’ Barlas was averting her gaze from his naked body. ‘A messenger has come from the east, from your brother Askari, with news he says is urgent. Even though it is early, he requests an immediate audience and Kasim ordered me to wake and tell you.’
Humayun’s unfocused eyes stared at Barlas as he tried to take in what she was saying, but the opium had made him slow. ‘Very well. I will return to my apartments. Tell Kasim to bring this messenger to me there.’
Half an hour later, back in his own quarters, dressed in a simple purple tunic and having splashed his face with cold water, Humayun looked at the man whose arrival had caused him to be roused from his rest. The messenger was a tall, slight man still with the dust of the road on his sweat-stained clothes. In his eagerness to speak to Humayun he almost forgot the ritual obeisance until reminded sharply by Kasim. As soon as he was back on his feet, he began. ‘Majesty, I am Kamal. I serve your brother Askari in Jaunpur. Reports reached us there of a great rebellion led by Sher Shah.Your brother waited until he was certain they were true then sent me to warn you.’
Humayun stared. Though Sher Shah controlled large lands in Bengal, this grandson of a horse trader would surely never dare to threaten him. He had pledged himself to Babur as a vassal of the Moghuls. Yet ambition often pushed men to rash acts. It might be ominous that he had assumed the name ‘Sher’, which meant ‘tiger’. Perhaps by doing so he intended to throw down a direct challenge to the true dynasty of the tiger – the Moghuls. Humayun glanced down at Timur’s ring, but with eyes still dilated by opium he could not focus on the snarling image of the tiger etched into its surface. After a moment Humayun returned his attention to the messenger. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Sher Shah is claiming large Moghul territories for himself. He has also declared himself leader of all Hindustani resistance to the Moghuls and has vowed to free Hindustan of every prince of the house of Timur. Even the proudest chieftains have become his retainers. Here – I bring you a letter from your brother which tells you everything that has happened – how far Sher Shah has advanced, how many chieftains have declared their support for him . . .’ The man held out a camel-skin pouch.
‘Give it to my vizier. I will read it later, when I have rested.’
The man looked startled but at once handed the pouch to Kasim.
‘Kasim – see that this man is given food and water and lodgings in the fort.’ But Kasim too seemed to be looking at him strangely. He didn’t understand that there was no point in rushing to take action. Later – when his mind had cleared – Humayun would think what to do. ‘Go now. Leave me in peace.’
As the doors closed behind Kasim and the messenger, Humayun glanced out through the casement. The perfect orange disc of the sun was rising into a cloudless sky. The red sandstone of the fort glowed as if it were about to burst into flame. Humayun rubbed his eyes and signalled to his attendants to lower the woven grass
tatti
screens to block out the relentless brightness that was making his head throb. The news of Sher Shah was bad and he must respond, but first he must sleep and to do that needed something to soothe his mind. He went over to a carved rosewood cabinet, unlocked it and took out a bottle of Gulrukh’s wine. This would help, wouldn’t it? He pulled out the stopper but then remembered that he would need a clear head later in the morning to decide what to do about Sher Shah. But perhaps it wouldn’t really matter if the decision waited until the afternoon. He poured some of Gulrukh’s mixture into an agate cup. A few minutes later he was drifting softly away but almost at once some sort of commotion again intruded into his dreams.
‘Raise the
tattis
and leave me alone with the emperor,’ came an angry female voice. ‘Humayun.’ Now it was shouting his name and seemed to be drawing closer. ‘Humayun!’ He sat up with a gasp as a deluging mass of cold water brought him back to consciousness. Forcing his eyes open he saw Khanzada standing by the side of his bed, an empty brass ewer in her hand and eyes full of anger.
‘What d’you want?’ Humayun gazed at her stupidly, uncertain whether she was real or some sort of hallucination.
‘Get up.You are a warrior – an emperor – but I find you lounging here in the dark in a drugged stupor like a
haram
eunuch at a time when your empire is in danger . . . I have just learned of the arrival of Askari’s messenger and of the news he brought. Why haven’t you summoned your council immediately?’
‘I will when I am ready . . .’
‘Look at you!’ Khanzada seized a mirror set with rubies and thrust it before him. Reflected in the burnished surface he saw a pallid face and dark, distant eyes with dilated pupils and deep, almost purple bags beneath them. He continued to stare, fascinated by the features that seemed so familiar, but Khanzada ripped the mirror from his hand and flung it against the wall, causing the metal to buckle and several of the rubies to fall from their mounts. They lay on the floor like drops of blood.
Kneeling before him, Khanzada took Humayun by the shoulders. ‘Opium is destroying your mind . . . You do not even recognise yourself in the mirror, do you? Do I have to remind you who you are . . . do I have to tell you of your bravery and the battles you won on your father’s behalf and of your destiny and duty to the Moghul dynasty? Have you forgotten everything that made you – us – the descendants of Timur – who we are? I’ve tried to warn you before that you are losing your grip on reality but you would not listen. Now I must force you to. The same blood that runs through your veins flows through mine also. I fear nothing except the loss of everything your father – my brother – fought and suffered for.’
What was she saying? Suddenly she let go of him and, leaning back, hit his face with the full force of her right hand. Again and again she struck – first the right and then the left side of his face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
‘Be as you once were. Be the man your father made his heir,’ she was shouting. ‘Abandon this cocoon of ritual and opium that is alienating your nobles and compromising your ability to rule.You are a warrior like your father. Stop worrying about what the stars say and whether you can live up to Babur, just do it!’
She had stopped striking him but the stinging pain was clearing the fog in his mind. The words that – when she had first begun speaking – had seemed to have no meaning were beginning to make some sense. Round and round in his mind they went and with them images of the past that they conjured – the visceral excitement he had always felt in the heat of battle or wrestling with his nobles or galloping out to the hunt with Babur. That whole, vibrant, physical world to which he had once belonged . . .
‘Give up the opium, Humayun . . . it is destroying you. Where are you keeping it?’
Kasim’s gentle words of warning began to come back to him from many months ago when Kasim and Baisanghar had given advice in his stead to the envoy of his governor in Bengal. If he had talked to the man himself might he have caught some nuance or given some guidance that might have prevented Sher Shah’s rebellion? Or perhaps Sher Shah had somehow come to learn of his lack of interest in what happened in Bengal. Humayun’s hand went slowly to the locket around his neck. Unclasping it, he handed it to Khanzada. Then, equally slowly, he walked over to the still open cabinet where he kept Gulrukh’s opium-infused wine. As he reached inside for the bottle, the dark, almost purple liquid inside glinted. It had brought him so much pleasure, so much knowledge . . . revealed so much to marvel at. Could it really be the destructive force that Kasim and Khanzada claimed?