The Moghul

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.

    *
    From a low latticework window down the east side of the Red Fort, past the Jasmine Tower and many levels down the Khas Mahal, it was just possible to see the center of the plaza. A woman stood by the window watching as the crowd turned on the young men and, one by one, cut them down. Then she saw a bloodstained body being hoisted above a black-cloaked assembly and carried triumphantly toward the river gate.

There had been tears as Shirin watched. But as she turned away, toward the darkness of the cell, her eyes were hard and dry.

    CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

    Hawksworth waited anxiously by the rear entryway of the Diwan-i-Khas and watched the three Jesuits file silently through the tapestried archway beside him. Father Alvarez Sarmento, imperious in his freshly laundered black habit, moved directly to the silver railing that circled the throne. The old priest's eyes seemed to fairly glow in triumph. Behind him trailed Father Pinheiro and the pudgy father Francisco da Silva, their attempts at poise marred by shifting, anxious glances of disquiet. Hawksworth studied all three and puzzled even more what could be afoot.
    Over a week had passed since the death of Samad, and since that day he had no longer been invited to