‘Aunt. .’ He reached out to touch her arm but she turned away and making for the doors flung them open herself. Calling to her two women who were waiting for her, she hurried away down the torch-lit corridor. Humayun stood for a moment in silence. He’d never quarrelled with Khanzada before, but what he’d said had been necessary, hadn’t it? The stars and their messages could not be ignored. A man — even one as powerful as an emperor — was as nothing compared to the seemingly never-ending cycles of movement of the stars within the fathomless universe. If he followed their signs his reign would surely prosper.
And what his aunt had said about Gulrukh. . that was also wrong. Of course, like all those at court she wanted the emperor’s good will. Maybe she hoped that by pleasing him she’d secure favours and privileges for her sons, his half-brothers Kamran and Askari. . but that was all. The mind-expanding journeys on which Gulrukh’s dark, opium-laced wine took him were her gift to him and he would not, could not give them up. .not when they were bringing him ever closer to unravelling the mysteries of existence.
‘Let whoever is striking the drum approach. Today is Friday — the day when I am ready to dispense justice to even the most humble of my subjects.’ Humayun smiled as he sat on his high-backed throne. This was the first time in the six months that it had been sitting outside his audience chamber that anyone had struck the great ox-hide drum to demand justice of the emperor. At the beginning the sound had been faint and uneven and for a moment had seemed to stop entirely. Then Humayun had heard it again. Whoever was beating the Drum of Justice seemed to have taken courage. The booms had grown louder and more frequent. He’d known this moment would come just as — in time — his ministers would accept the reforms he was making. Even old Kasim, standing so solemn-faced by the side of his throne, would acknowledge he’d been right.
The footsteps of six of his blue-turbaned bodyguards rang on the stone floor as they marched out to the courtyard. When they returned, a young Hindu woman in a red silk sari with a red tilak mark on her forehead was with them. Her long dark hair was streaming unbound over her shoulders and her expression was both nervous and determined. The guards brought her to within ten feet of the throne and she knelt before him.
‘Rise. The emperor is ready to hear your request,’ said Kasim. ‘You may be assured that you will receive justice.’
The woman glanced uncertainly at the glittering, bejewelled figure of Humayun on his throne as if she could not quite believe she was in his presence. ‘Majesty, my name is Sita. I am the wife of a merchant in Agra. My husband deals in spices like cinnamon, saffron and cloves. A week ago he was returning to Agra with a small mule train carrying goods he had purchased in the markets in Delhi. Two days’ ride from here — near our holy Hindu city of Mathura — he and his men were attacked by dacoits who robbed them of everything they were carrying — even stripping the clothes off their backs. The dacoits were about to ride away with the mules when a party of your soldiers came riding by. The soldiers killed the dacoits but instead of restoring his goods to my husband they jeered at him. They said that he was bleating like a sheep and that was how he deserved to be treated. Cutting the ropes with which the dacoits had bound him, they made him run naked and barefoot over the hot sand, chasing him on horseback and mocking and pricking him with the tips of their spears. When finally they had tired of their sport, they rode off leaving him lying exhausted and bleeding in the dust.And with them they took all my husband’s mules with their precious cargo of spices. .’
Sita’s voice was trembling with anger and indignation but she raised her chin and looked Humayun squarely in the face. ‘I seek justice for my husband. He is a loyal subject of Your Majesty and no longer young.Your soldiers should have protected not abused him. Now he is lying at home covered in festering wounds inflicted by them. .’
Kasim stepped forward, ready to question the woman, but Humayun waved him back. The soldiers’ behaviour reflected on his dignity. He must be like the sun to his subjects. His light and warmth must fall on them all but this poor merchant had been cast into the darkness. .
‘What more can you tell me of these soldiers? Do you know their names?’
‘My husband said that one of them called their leader Mirak Beg and that he was a tall, broad man with a broken nose and a white scar disfiguring his lip.’
Humayun knew Mirak Beg — a rowdy, hard-living chieftain from Badakhshan who had marched with Humayun and his father to invade Hindustan. He had distinguished himself at Panipat, leaping from his horse on to the back leg of a war elephant and hauling himself up the beast to kill enemy archers who’d been firing arrows at Humayun’s men from the howdah on its back. But past bravery was no excuse for present crimes. Mirak Beg must answer for his lawlessness.
‘If what you have told me is the truth, I will give you justice. Go home now and await my summons. Kasim — find Mirak Beg and bring him before me as soon as possible.’
Rising, Humayun rushed from the audience chamber. He felt sick. His head was aching again — these sharp stabbing pains behind his eyes were becoming more and more frequent and so too were the tricks his eyes were playing, making it hard for him to focus. He needed more wine and opium to soothe away the pain, relax his mind again and free him from the mundane obligations of the court.
Dressed in blood-red robes as befitted Tuesday, the day governed by the planet Mars, Humayun looked down at Mirak Beg’s defiant face. Though hauled into the audience chamber in chains, he was somehow managing to maintain his usual swaggering air. His dark eyes were fixed on Humayun’s face and he seemed not to have noticed the executioners standing ready with their freshly oiled axes or the dark red blood staining the Stone of Execution — the giant slab of black marble that had been placed to the right of the throne and on which four of Mirak Beg’s wildly struggling men had just had their right hands chopped off and the stumps cauterised with red-hot irons. The smell of their burning flesh still filled the air, even though they had been led out.
‘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. .’