‘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.’