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
‘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
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