The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  Brian Hawksworth's lean frame towered above the crowd, conspicuous in jerkin and seaboots. He had heard the rumor and he had come to the plaza to watch, mingling among the turbaned assembly of nobles, shopkeepers, mullahs, and assorted street touts. His presence was immediately noted by all, especially the crippled beggars in dirty brown dhotis, who dragged themselves through the crowd, their leprosy-withered hands upturned, calling for a pice in the name of Allah. They knew from experience that, however ragged a feringhi might appear, he was always more likely to be moved by their plight than a wealthy Indian merchant.

  The plaza was a confined area between the steep eastern side of the Red Fort and the outer wall of the fortress. Beyond the fortress wall lay the wide Jamuna River, while high above, and with a commanding view of the plaza, sat Arangbar, watching from the black throne at the outer edge of the Diwan-i-Khas. Next to him sat Queen Janahara and Allaudin. The day was Tuesday and the sun was approach­ing midday. As Hawksworth pushed his way to the front of the crowd, the last elephant fight of the morning had just begun.

  Two First-ranked bull elephants were locked head to head in the dusty square. Their blunted tusks were wreathed with brass rings, and the back of each was covered with a brocaded canvas on which sat two riders. Perched on each animal's neck and directing it was its mahout, and on its rump sat its Second-ranked keeper, whose assignment was to urge the animal to greater frenzy.

  The dusty air was alive with a festive clanging from large bells attached to each elephant's harness. Hawksworth noticed that a long chain, called the lor langar, was secured to the left foreleg of each elephant and circled over its back, where it was attached to a heavy log held by the second rider. Both elephants also had other keepers who ran alongside holding long poles, at the end of which was crossed a foot- long piece of paper-covered bamboo. Nearby another keeper stood holding a smoldering taper.

  Hawksworth watched in awe as the elephants backed away and lunged together again and again, tusk resounding against tusk, often rearing on their hind legs as each strained for advantage.

  "Do you have a favorite, feringhi Sahib?" A brown-skinned man with a slightly soiled turban was tugging at Hawksworth's sleeve. "There is still time to wager."

  "No thanks." Hawksworth moved to brush him aside.

  "But it is our habit in India to wager on the elephants, Sahib. Perhaps the Sahib does not yet know Indian customs?" He pushed closer, directly in Hawksworth's face. His few remaining teeth were stained red with betel. "I myself am a poor judge of elephants, l can never guess which will win. Still I love to wager. May Allah forgive me."

  "I'm not here to bet."

  "Just this once, Sahib. For my weakness." He turned and pointed through the dust. "Although the dark elephant is smaller and already growing tired, I will even offer to bet on him to give you, a guest in India, a chance to win. So when you return to your feringhistan someday, you will say there is one honest man in India. I will wager you ten rupees the dark one will be declared the winner." The man backed away for an instant and discreetly assessed Hawksworth's worn jerkin with a quick glance. "If ten rupees are too much, I will wager you five."

  Hawksworth studied the two elephants again. The dark one was slightly smaller, and did seem to be growing tired. The other elephant, larger and brown, had a mahout less skilled but he also clearly was gaining the advantage.

  "All right. I'll take the brown." Hawksworth reached for his purse, feeling slightly relieved that it was still there. "And I'll lay twenty rupees."

  "As pleases the Sahib." The man smiled broadly. "The Sahib must be a very rich man in his feringhistan."

  Even as he spoke, the large brown elephant wheeled and slammed its black adversary in the side with its tusks, barely missing the leg of the mahout. The black elephant staggered backward, against the side of the fort. It was now clearly on the defensive, as the larger elephant began slamming it repeatedly in the side.

  Hawksworth found himself caught up in the taste of imminent victory.

  "Charkhi! Charkhi!" A cry began to rise from the crowd. The man holding the burning taper looked up toward Arangbar, who signaled lightly with his hand. Then the men holding the long poles tipped them toward the taper, and the two ends of papered bamboo were quickly ignited.

  The bamboo sticks started to whirl like pinwheels, popping and throwing sparks from the gunpowder packed inside. The keepers turned and thrust the poles under the face of the brown elephant, sending him rearing backward in fright.

  Although the black elephant now lay crushed against the wall, the brown was too distracted by the sudden noise to press his advantage. Instead he wheeled away from the exploding bamboo and began to charge wildly toward the edge of the crowd. Retreating bodies pummeled about Hawksworth, and there were frightened calls of "lor langar." As the elephant neared the crowd, its second rider, with a look of infinite regret, threw down the log chained to its forefoot. The chain whipped against its leg, and in moments it was tangled and stumbling.

  By then the smaller black elephant had recovered its feet and came galloping in chase. In moments he was there, slamming his larger adversary with his tusks. The brown elephant stumbled awkwardly, tangled in the chain, and then collapsed into the dust. With a victory yell the mahout of the black elephant pulled a cord releasing a canvas cloth over its eyes. The heaving animal immediately began to gentle, and its jubilant keepers ran forward to lead it away.

  "Your elephant lost, Sahib. My regrettings. May I have the twenty rupees?"

  "But it was fixed!" Hawksworth held tightly to his purse.

  "The brown was clearly winning before he was frightened by the damned fireworks."

  "Did I neglect to tell the Sahib that the black elephant is a khasa, from His Majesty's private stable? His Majesty does not like to see his elephants lose."

  "You conniving bastard."

  "His Majesty makes the rules. Sahib. It is permitted to use the charkhi fireworks once during a contest, if His Majesty judges that the elephants need to be disciplined. May Allah grant you better luck next week." The man stood waiting, hand outstretched.

  "You're a damned thief."

  "That is a harsh judgment. Sahib. I am merely a poor man who must live. If you wait, you will see what happens to criminals here."

  With a sigh of resignation Hawksworth began to count out the twenty silver rupees, trying to look as sporting as he could muster. He found himself in grudging admiration of the swindler's style. Then he suddenly realized what the man had said.

  The rumors must have been right.

  "You mean there'll be an execution?"

  "This is the day. His Majesty always has executions on Tuesday, after the elephant fights."

  Hawksworth looked up to see another bull elephant being ridden into the plaza. He had sharpened tusks, each decorated with a single heavy brass ring, and was guided by a single rider, a fierce-looking, unshaven mahout. The elephant was festooned with bells, but there were no chains about any of its legs.

  At the other end of the square a balding man, with a short black beard and a ragged green cloak, was being dragged forward by Imperial guards. Hawksworth noticed that his arms had been bound behind him, by a heavy cord circled just above the elbows. His eyes brimmed with fear.

  The guards shoved him struggling toward the middle of the plaza. When they reached the central clearing, the officer of the guard knocked him to his knees with the butt end of a lance. The stunned prisoner turned to watch in terror as the elephant lumbered toward him, flapping its ears in anticipa­tion.

  "He was sentenced yesterday, Sahib."

  "What did he do? Steal some nobleman's sheep? In England that's a hanging offense."

  "Oh no, Sahib, Islamic law does not give the death penalty for theft, unless a thief is notorious. And even then he must be caught in the act. If it is proved you have stolen something worth more than a certain amount, then the sentence is to have your right hand cut off. But for that to happen there must either be
two witnesses or the thief must himself confess. Islamic law is not cruel; it is just."

  "What's this man accused of then?"

  "He was tried and found guilty under Islamic law of qatlul-'amd, a willful murder. His name is Kaliyan, and he is a Hindu and the son of Bijai Ganga Ram. He is accused of having kept a common Muslim woman as his concubine, and when the woman's father discovered this and went to reclaim her to restore his family's honor, this man murdered him and buried him behind his house. He confessed the act yesterday morning before His Majesty."

  The elephant moved with calm deliberation toward the kneeling prisoner, guided by the mahout, until it towered directly over the quivering man. Suddenly it whipped its trunk about the man's torso and lifted him squirming into the air, holding him firmly against its banded tusks. It swung the screaming man back and forth in delight for a long moment, seeming to relish the torment, then dashed him violently to the ground.

  The prisoner hit on his back, gasping, and weakly tried to roll to his feet. Before he could gain his footing, the elephant was there again, seizing him once more with its leathery trunk and again slamming him to the ground.

  "The elephant will torment him for a time. Sahib. Before the moment of death." The small brown man's eyes shone in anticipation.

  Again the prisoner was lifted and again dashed to the ground. Now he no longer attempted to struggle; he merely lay moaning in a broken voice.

  Then the mahout shouted something to the elephant and the animal suddenly reared above the man, crushing down on him with both front feet. There was a final, rending scream and then silence, as blood sprayed over the dust. The elephant reared again, and again mashed the lifeless body. Then again. Finally the animal placed one foot on the man's lower torso and seized his crushed chest with its trunk, wrenching upward and rending the body in two. Maddened by the smell of blood, he whipped the torn half upward and slammed it once more against the hard earth. Finally the mahout tapped the blood-spattered elephant with his ankus and began guiding it toward the back of the square. The crowd, which had held a spellbound silence, erupted into cheers.

  "That's the most brutal death I've ever seen." Hawksworth found his voice only after the initial shock had passed.

  "It's why so few men dare to commit murder, Sahib. But His Majesty is very just. All criminals are given a full Islamic trial before they are executed."

  Hawksworth looked up to see yet another man being led into the plaza. The cheers of the crowd died abruptly. He wore only a loincloth, which was pure white, and his hands were bound not behind him but in front, secured through a large wooden clamp that had been locked together like European stocks. Hawksworth took one look and felt his own groin tighten.

  "All praise to Allah the Merciful. And to the Holy Prophet, on whom be peace," one of the white-bearded mullahs shouted through the silence. He wore a gray turban, a dingy collarless shirt that reached to his knees, and over that a long black vest. He carried a staff and was barefoot. Other mullahs clustered around him immediately and joined his call.

  "Murder! Murder!" Another voice began to chant, from a young man standing near Hawksworth. Then other young men with him took up the cry and began to surge forward. They were fresh-faced, with clean white shirts and trousers, and they awkwardly began to brandish short swords.

  Imperial guards immediately threw a line across the crowd and held the young men back with short pikes. While the crowd watched, the prisoner continued to walk alone and unescorted toward the center of the square.

  Hawksworth studied the face again, the deep sad eyes above a flowing white beard, and there was no doubt. He turned to the man standing beside him.

  "Do you know who that is?"

  "Of course, Sahib. He's the heretic poet Samad. Did you hear that he denied the existence of Allah in an Islamic court? He has been sentenced to death."

  "Who are those men with the swords?"

  "They're his disciples. I think they came today to try to save him."

  Hawksworth turned to see the elephant again being urged forward.

  "What about . . . what about the Persian woman I heard was arrested with him?"

  "I do not think she has been executed yet, Sahib. They say she will be hanged, secretly, in the fort. Women are not executed by elephant."

  "When . . ." Hawksworth struggled to contain his voice. "When do they say she'll be hanged?"

  "Perhaps in a week or two. Perhaps she is already dead." He moved forward to watch. "What do poor Believers know of justice inside the fort? But the heretic Samad will die for all to see, so there will be no rumors that he still lives. Already there are stories in Agra that he had escaped to Persia."

  Samad had reached the center of the square. As the elephant approached, he turned to the crowd of young men, raising his bound hands toward them in a gesture of recognition.

  "Do not grieve for this weak clay." His voice was sonorous, hypnotic, and the crowd fell curiously quiet. "Grieve for yourselves, you who must travel on a short while, sorrowing still."

  The crowd erupted again, the mullahs and many others urging his death, the young followers decrying it. Again he lifted his hands, and his voice seemed to bring silence around it.

  "I say to you do not grieve. You will all soon know far greater sorrow. Soon death will lay his dark hand across the city of Agra, upon Muslim and Hindu alike, upon woman and child. Many will perish without cause. Therefore grieve not for me. Grieve for yourselves, when death will descend upon your doorsteps, there to take the innocent. Sorrow for your own."

  The crowd had listened in hushed silence. Then a bearded mullah shouted "Death to the heretic" and others took up the cry.

  Samad watched the elephant quietly as it continued to lumber forward. When it reached him, he bowed to it with an ironic smile. The mahout looked upward toward the black throne of the Diwan-i-Khas, where Arangbar and Janahara sat waiting. Arangbar turned to the queen, with what seemed a question, and she replied without moving her stare from the court below. Arangbar paused a moment, then signaled the mahout to proceed. The bearded mahout saluted the Moghul, then urged the elephant forward with his sharp ankus.

  The elephant flapped its bloodstained ears in confusion but did not move.

  The mahout goaded it again and shouted something in its ear, but it merely waved its trunk and trumpeted.

  "Merciful Allah. The elephant does not smell his crime." The small man caught Hawksworth's questioning look. "The Great Akman believed elephants would not kill an innocent man, that they can always smell a man's guilt. But I have never before seen one refuse to kill a prisoner. I think Samad must be a wizard, who has entranced the animal."

  "Innocent," a young man from the group of disciples yelled out above the silence.

  The mahout goaded the elephant once more, but still it stood unmoving.

  "Innocent." More cries went up from Samad's young followers, and again they pressed forward, swords in hand. In moments the plaza became a battleground, blood staining the earth as the Imperial guards began turning their pikes against the line of disciples. Then others in the crowd, mullahs leading them, broke through and joined the battle against the young men. Sword rang against sword and calls to Allah rent the air.

  Samad stood quietly watching as the battle edged toward him. Then suddenly a group of bearded mullahs broke from the crowd and surged toward him, swords drawn. Hawks­worth instinctively reached for his own weapon, but the man beside him caught his arm. He looked down to see a small, rust-handled katar pointed against his chest.

  "This is the will of Allah. An infidel must not interfere."

  The mullahs had formed a ring around Samad. He stood silently, waiting, as the leader stepped forward and thrust a long sword into the bare skin of his lower stomach. He jerked but did not fall, standing tall as another swung a sharp blade across his open neck. His head dropped to one side and he slumped forward, as two more men thrust swords into his belly. In seconds he disappeared beneath a crowd of black cloaks.