The fourth boat, the ornate
Arayish,
or Decoration, was a boat for romantic pleasures, only to be used at night. Akbar led Mogor dell’Amore into the main cabin of the
Asayish
and let out a low sigh of pleasure, as he always did when the subtleties of water replaced the banality of solid ground beneath his feet.
The foreigner looked as full of the unborn child of his secret as a woman on the verge of parturition, and as afraid of the dangers of the act. Akbar tormented his guest a little longer by asking the boat’s crew to scurry around them performing a series of acts dictated by court protocol, procedures involving cushions, wine, and books. Any drink had to be tasted for poison three times before it reached the emperor’s lips, and though the practice bored the emperor he did not gainsay it. As regarded books, however, Akbar had changed the protocol. According to the old ways, any book that reached the imperial presence had to be read by three different commentators and pronounced free of sedition, obscenity, and lies. “In other words,” the young king had said on ascending the throne, “we are only to read the most boring books ever written. Well, that won’t do at all.” Nowadays all sorts of books were permitted, but the three commentators’ reviews were relayed to the emperor before he opened them, because of the overarching, supreme protocol regarding the inappropriateness of royal surprise. And as for cushions, each of them had to be tested in case an ill-wisher had concealed a blade within. All this the emperor suffered to be done. Then, at last, he allowed himself to be with the foreigner out of earshot of any aide.
“Sire,” said Mogor dell’Amore, and his voice seemed to tremble just a little as he spoke, “there is a matter I beg leave to reveal to you, and you alone.”
Akbar burst into a great shout of laughter. “We think if we had made you wait any longer you might have died of it,” he chuckled. “For over an hour now you have looked like a boil that needed to burst.”
The foreigner colored brightly. “Your Majesty knows everything,” he said, bowing. (The emperor had not invited him to sit.) “However, I venture to believe that the nature of my information cannot be known to you, even though its existence plainly is.” Akbar composed himself and looked grave. “Well, get on with it, man,” he said. “Let’s have whatever it is you have to give.”
“So be it, sire,” began the foreigner. “There was once, in Turkey, an adventurer-prince named Argalia or Arcalia, a great warrior who possessed enchanted weapons, and in whose retinue were four terrifying giants, and he had a woman with him, Angelica…”
From the skiff
Farmayish,
which was racing toward the
Asayish
with Abul Fazl and a small crowd of men aboard, came a loud cry—“Beware! Save the emperor! Beware!”—and at once the crew of the king’s boat rushed into the royal cabin and seized Mogor dell’Amore without ceremony. There was a thickly muscled arm around his throat, and three swords pointed at his heart. The emperor had risen to his feet and he, too, was quickly encircled by armed men, to defend him from harm.
“…Angelica, the princess of India and Cathay…” the foreigner struggled to continue. The arm tightened around his windpipe. “…The most beautiful…” he added, painfully, and the grip on his throat tightened again; whereupon Mogor dell’Amore lost consciousness, and said no more.
{ 7 }
In the dark of the dungeon his chains
I n the dark of the dungeon his chains weighed on him like his unfinished story. There were so many chains winding around him that he could imagine, in the darkness, that he had somehow been encased inside a larger body, the body of a man of iron. Movement was impossible. Light was a fantasy. The dungeon had been carved out of the living rock of the hill beneath the imperial palaces and the air in his cell was a thousand years old, and so perhaps were the
Arayish,
or Decoration, was a boat for romantic pleasures, only to be used at night. Akbar led Mogor dell’Amore into the main cabin of the
Asayish
and let out a low sigh of pleasure, as he always did when the subtleties of water replaced the banality of solid ground beneath his feet.
The foreigner looked as full of the unborn child of his secret as a woman on the verge of parturition, and as afraid of the dangers of the act. Akbar tormented his guest a little longer by asking the boat’s crew to scurry around them performing a series of acts dictated by court protocol, procedures involving cushions, wine, and books. Any drink had to be tasted for poison three times before it reached the emperor’s lips, and though the practice bored the emperor he did not gainsay it. As regarded books, however, Akbar had changed the protocol. According to the old ways, any book that reached the imperial presence had to be read by three different commentators and pronounced free of sedition, obscenity, and lies. “In other words,” the young king had said on ascending the throne, “we are only to read the most boring books ever written. Well, that won’t do at all.” Nowadays all sorts of books were permitted, but the three commentators’ reviews were relayed to the emperor before he opened them, because of the overarching, supreme protocol regarding the inappropriateness of royal surprise. And as for cushions, each of them had to be tested in case an ill-wisher had concealed a blade within. All this the emperor suffered to be done. Then, at last, he allowed himself to be with the foreigner out of earshot of any aide.
“Sire,” said Mogor dell’Amore, and his voice seemed to tremble just a little as he spoke, “there is a matter I beg leave to reveal to you, and you alone.”
Akbar burst into a great shout of laughter. “We think if we had made you wait any longer you might have died of it,” he chuckled. “For over an hour now you have looked like a boil that needed to burst.”
The foreigner colored brightly. “Your Majesty knows everything,” he said, bowing. (The emperor had not invited him to sit.) “However, I venture to believe that the nature of my information cannot be known to you, even though its existence plainly is.” Akbar composed himself and looked grave. “Well, get on with it, man,” he said. “Let’s have whatever it is you have to give.”
“So be it, sire,” began the foreigner. “There was once, in Turkey, an adventurer-prince named Argalia or Arcalia, a great warrior who possessed enchanted weapons, and in whose retinue were four terrifying giants, and he had a woman with him, Angelica…”
From the skiff
Farmayish,
which was racing toward the
Asayish
with Abul Fazl and a small crowd of men aboard, came a loud cry—“Beware! Save the emperor! Beware!”—and at once the crew of the king’s boat rushed into the royal cabin and seized Mogor dell’Amore without ceremony. There was a thickly muscled arm around his throat, and three swords pointed at his heart. The emperor had risen to his feet and he, too, was quickly encircled by armed men, to defend him from harm.
“…Angelica, the princess of India and Cathay…” the foreigner struggled to continue. The arm tightened around his windpipe. “…The most beautiful…” he added, painfully, and the grip on his throat tightened again; whereupon Mogor dell’Amore lost consciousness, and said no more.
{ 7 }
In the dark of the dungeon his chains
I n the dark of the dungeon his chains weighed on him like his unfinished story. There were so many chains winding around him that he could imagine, in the darkness, that he had somehow been encased inside a larger body, the body of a man of iron. Movement was impossible. Light was a fantasy. The dungeon had been carved out of the living rock of the hill beneath the imperial palaces and the air in his cell was a thousand years old, and so perhaps were the
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