The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie Page B

and, less nobly, “We want the money back!” The accused, wearing only a long white shirt, and with his hands tied behind him, took in the ominous scene—the emperor, the nine judges, the accusers, and the small gallery of lesser courtiers who had crowded into the small building to bear witness to the trial, among whom, distinctive in their black Jesuit garb, were the two Christian priests, Father Rodolfo Acquaviva and Father Antonio Monserrate, there to ensure that the men of the West received the justice and, perhaps, the money they had come so far to demand. The accused understood the size of his miscalculation. It had not occurred to him that this rabble would pursue him once their master was dead, and so he had not tried to cover his tracks. A tall yellow-haired man standing up in a bullock-cart in a leather coat of variegated colors was not a common sight on Indian roads. And they were many and he was one, and his case was doomed to fail. “In this place,” Abul Fazl was saying, “he goes by a different name.”
    Father Acquaviva was permitted to speak through his Persian interpreter. “This
Mogor dell’Amore
is no name at all,” he said, damningly. “It means,
a Mughal born out of wedlock.
It is a name that dares much and will offend many. By assuming it he implies that he wishes to be thought of as an illegitimate prince.”
    This statement caused consternation in the court. The emperor’s head sank lower, until his chin was resting on his chest. Abul Fazl turned to face the accused. “What is your name?” he demanded. “For I am sure this ‘Uccello’ is only another disguise.”
    The prisoner remained silent. Then all of a sudden the emperor roared from above.
    “Your name,” he shouted, sounding like a more stentorian version of Praise-God Hawkins lamenting the infidelity of his Portuguese lady love. “The devil with it! Your name,
farangi,
or your life.”
    The prisoner spoke. “I am called Vespucci,” he said quietly. “Vespucci, Niccolò.”
    “Another lie,” Father Acquaviva interjected through his interpreter. “Vespucci, indeed.” He laughed loudly, a vulgar Occidental laugh, the laugh of a people who believed they were the keepers of the world’s laughter. “This is indeed a shameless, lying thief, and this time he has stolen a great Florentine name.”
    It was at this point that Raja Birbal intervened. “Sir,” he said to the Jesuit, “we are grateful for your earlier remark, but spare us, please, these exclamations. A strange case is here before us. A Scottish nobleman is dead, that much is verified, and much regretted by all. The letter he bore for His Majesty has been delivered by the accused; this, too, we know, but a postman does not become a murderer by delivering a dead man’s mail. The ship’s crew states that after much research they located seven hidden chambers in the captain’s cabin, and that all seven were empty. But who emptied them? We cannot say. Perhaps they contained gold, or jewels, but then again, perhaps they were empty to begin with. The ship’s doctor Hawkins has given sworn deposition that he now believes the late milord to have suffered from the fatal consequence of laudanum poisoning, but as he himself tended to the sick man day and night until the hour of his death, he may be accusing another to cover his own guilt. The accusers hold the prisoner guilty of theft, yet he has faithfully delivered the one thing we know for certain that he removed, the parchment from the English queen; and as for gold, there is no sign of that, or of laudanum, among his effects.” He clapped his hands and a servant entered, carrying the prisoner’s clothes, including the lozenged leather coat. “We have searched his garments, and the bag he left at the Hatyapul house of ill fame, and we have found a trickster’s hoard—playing cards, dice, deceptions of all sorts, even a living bird—but no great fortune in jewels or in gold. What then are we to think? That he