The Great Mogul

“He that refreshes the thirsty earth and causes the flowers to grow is among the most deserving of mortals.”

The man shifted his water-bag uneasily.

“Salaam, sahib,” he said. “May your years be numbered as the pice in these coins!”

Now, there are sixty-four pice in a rupee, so the bhisti’s wish had not an uncheerful ring in their ears as they followed their guide across the garden and thence to a new part of the palace grounds. They were conducted to an extensive stone platform, built level with the fortifications at a point where the outer walls were laved by the river Jumna.

Exactly in front of and below the platform, however, a square enclosed court, or arena, was reclaimed from the bed of the stream. The preparations in progress there, no less than the presence of several elephants in battle gear, hunting leopards in leash, antelopes trained for fighting, buffaloes whose tremendous horns were tipped with lance points, and many other animals, including even the ungainly rhinoceros, showed what manner of sport was forthcoming. Notwithstanding the precarious condition of their own fortunes, both Mowbray and Sainton regarded the scene with curious eyes. They had, of course, during their three years’ sojourn, witnessed the fierce spring of the chitah6 onto the back of a flying deer; they had chased wild boar and even nilgau, the fierce blue cow of India, on horseback; they had seen a trained eagle pounce onto an antelope and buffet the frightened creature’s head with its wings until the claws got to work. But a combat of elephants was a King’s amusement, as few save a monarch could afford the cost or compel men to risk and lose their lives in such fashion.

The broad terrace on which they stood was flanked by the graceful buildings of the zenana. A double line of spear-men guarded it on three sides, while another batch of warriors surrounded a ponderous block of black marble, resting on four low supports, which bore the Emperor’s chair. This was placed close to the edge of the battlements, so that his Majesty could watch each detail of the sanguinary encounters in the arena some twenty feet beneath. The chair was securely bound to the marble block lest it should topple over in a moment of royal excitement, and there was standing room on the huge stone to accommodate a dozen privileged spectators. For the rest, the platform extended so far on either hand that all could look easily into the enclosure, whilst many a window and balcony of the palace permitted the ladies of the household to take part in the proceedings if they were so minded. When the Englishmen arrived there were already many rajahs, omrahs, and other notabilities standing in groups on the terrace. None of these addressed the strangers, but muttered words and covert looks showed that some event was toward of which those present were cognizant.

Roger eyed the strength of the guard and smiled. He laughed outright when he nudged Walter to note the manner in which even the royal chair was protected.

“Jahangir either plans mischief or is afraid of it,” he said. “He hath marshaled a small army to protect him in his own house.”

Walter straightway took the bull by the horns in addressing a question to one who stood near and with whom he had a slight acquaintance.

“Is such display of force usual within the palace?” he asked.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

“They talk of a fierce tiger being let loose,” he murmured. “One never knows what may happen.”

He vouchsafed no further information. Indeed, at that moment, Jahangir put in an appearance. His swarthy face was flushed and there was an evil glint in his close set eyes. Evidently he had been imbibing liquor forbidden by the Prophet. Accompanied by a few young noblemen whose appearance betokened the force of kingly example, he strode towards his chair without paying the slightest attention to the respectful salaams of the crowd.

“Bring the sheep first,” he grunted. “We shall deal with the pigs later.”

This obscure joke was greeted with shouts of laughter.

“Karamat! Karamat!”7 was the exclamation, for every Mahomedan there had laid to heart the Persian proverb: —

“Should the King say that it is night at noon,

Be sure to cry: ‘Behold, I see the moon!’”

Yet Mowbray, alert to discern the slightest straw-twist on the swirl of the current, thought that some of the older men glanced askance at each other, which puzzled him, as he knew quite well that the death of a Feringhi was of little account to an Asiatic.

The “sheep” alluded to by Jahangir were veritable carcases of those animals, slung from poles by the feet tied in a bunch. They were carried by servants onto the terrace itself, and forthwith a few athletic youths created some excitement by endeavoring, in the first place, to cut through the four feet at one blow, and, secondly, to divide the body in the same way. They used their razor-edged simitars with much skill, science rather than great strength being demanded by the task.

When half a dozen carcases had been dissected with more or less success, Jahangir shouted a question to Sainton, of whose presence he seemed to be unaware hitherto.

“Tell me, Hathi,” he cried. “Canst perform either trick with thy long sword? Thy arm is strong, but is thy wrist supple?”

All eyes were instantly bent on Roger, to whom Mowbray whispered the King’s meaning lest he had not properly caught the words. The giant grinned genially.

“A slung sheep offers but slight resistance to a blow,” he said. “Were he fresh from the spit I’d sooner eat him.”

Discreet mirth rewarded his humor, but Jahangir wheeled round in his chair towards the ditch and clapped his hands as a signal to the attendants. At once began a series of sanguinary events in which buffaloes contended with nilgau, hunting dogs tore down bears let loose from invisible caverns, and panthers made magnificent leaps after flying deer. Few were real combats. In most cases a helpless creature was ruthlessly slaughtered by some vicious and snarling enemy, and the more ghastly the dying struggles of the doomed antelope or bellowing cow the more excited and vociferous became the spectators.

A fight between elephants was a really thrilling affair. Two magnificent brutes, specially imported from Ceylon, were led up on opposite sides of a low mud wall built on wood and carried into the arena by a host of men. Gorgeously caparisoned, and trumpeting strange squeals of defiance, each elephant was urged towards this barrier by his two riders. Separated at first by the wall, they fought furiously with heads, tusks, and trunks, while the leading mahout encouraged his mount by shrill cries, forcing him to the attack with a steel ankus, or striving to ward off the blows of the opposing beast’s trunk with the same instrument. It was quickly apparent why there were two men astride an elephant. Each cunning brute knew that it was an advantage to get rid of his adversary’s mahout, and, indeed, one rider was killed before the fight was long in progress. But the death of the man so enraged his elephant that he sprang onto the wall ere the second attendant could climb to his head, and gored his opponent in the flank with such ferocity that the other turned and fled.

The two rushed towards the end of the enclosure, and the leading animal charged a stout barricade so blindly that it yielded before his great bulk. He fell, and the pursuer attacked him furiously. At once a terrific fanfare of hautboys and cymbals burst forth, and a number of men ran with lighted fireworks, mostly Catherine wheels, attached to long sticks, which they thrust under the legs and before the eyes of the victor. This device caused him to abandon the assault, and he allowed his remaining mahout to drive him away, but not until two unfortunate bhois, or attendants, had been trodden to death.

Jahangir nodded his satisfaction, and the riders of the elephants were permitted to alight, each man being given a sackful of pice, while the ears of the conquering animal were decorated with tails of the white Tibetan ox, or yak. As for the inanimate corpses of the hapless mahout and his assistants, they were huddled onto biers and borne away, followed by some shrieking women, whose plaints were drowned by the din of trumpets six or seven feet in length and a foot wide at the mouth.

It must not be imagined that the spectacle disgusted the English onlookers. In an age when men lived by the sword, when personal bravery and physical hardihood were the best equipment a youth could possess, there were no fastidious notions as to the sacredness of human life or the deliberate cruelty involved in such encounters.

They were wondering what would provide the next act in this drama of blood and death when a stir towards the rear of the platform on which they stood caused them to look in that direction.

Sainton, by reason of his height, could see over the heads of the crowd.

“By the cross of Osmotherly!” he cried, “the mystery is cleared. Here comes Sher Afghán, closely tended, if not a prisoner.”

It was, indeed, the Persian noble himself who now advanced towards Jahangir, the Emperor having swung his chair, which was on a pivot, to face the palace. Sher Afghán’s mien was collected, his dress in good order. He was unarmed, and the mace-bearers who marched behind him might be merely doing him honor.

With eyes for none save Jahangir he strode on with firm step. At the proper distance he stopped and bowed deeply.

“To hear the King’s order is to obey,” he said quietly. “Your Majesty’s messenger rode far, for I hastened to Burdwán, but when he reached me I turned my horse’s head that moment.”

“Say rather, you gave orders to your litter carriers. When last we parted you had pleasant company in the palki,” replied Jahangir.

“Neither my wife nor I love indolence, O King of Kings. We have ridden hither at the rate of sixty miles a day.”

“I am glad of it. Being newly come to the throne I did not wish the most beautiful and the bravest of my subjects to be banished from the capital to far Burdwán.”

“Your Majesty’s words are more propitious than a favorable sign in the heavens.”

“They carry no better augury than the hour of your arrival, for, in very truth, I feared you might be tardy. I owe these strangers from beyond the black waters some slight debt in my illustrious father’s behalf. Certain monies shall be paid them, but first I have discharged a promise of the great Akbar’s to entertain them.”

He waved a jeweled hand towards Mowbray and Sainton, and the Persian saw them for the first time. But Jahangir went on slowly, his white teeth showing as if he wished to bite each word: —

“Thy coming, friend, hath provided for all a truly marvelous close to a day of pleasure. Art thou not named Sher Afghán, Slayer of Tigers? Behold, then, a foe worthy even of thy reputation.”

Again he clapped his hands. A door was opened in the cellars beneath, and a great Bengal tiger, maddened by hours of torture, sprang into the center of the arena, the broken barrier having been hastily repaired with strong hurdles. The lissome beast, whose striped skin shone like cloth of gold and brown velvet in the rays of the declining sun, stood for a little while lashing his sides in fury with his tail until he caught the scent of blood. Then he crouched, and began to stalk, he cared not what. The air was fetid with killing, and this past master in the hunter’s art knew the tokens of his craft.

But the arena was otherwise empty, and his lambent eyes, searching eagerly for the cause of so much reek, were raised at last to the intent row of faces looking down at him.

“What sayest thou, Sher Afghán,” cried the Emperor. “Art thou minded to vindicate thy title with one who seems to dispute it, or has a happy marriage robbed thy arm of its prowess?”

The Persian hesitated. He, like his English friends, had thought it better to brave Jahangir’s animosity in Agra itself than fall beneath the attack of hirelings in some distant fray. In the capital, there was always a chance of a political upheaval as the outcome of a quarrel, whereas, in a remote part, the minions of a vengeful monarch might strike unheeded. Jahangir’s tenure of the throne was far from stable. Yet, though he might not dare openly to put to death a noble of high rank, this challenge meant little else, even if it held the plausible pretext that Sher Afghán chose his doom voluntarily.

A thrill of anticipation shook all hearers as they awaited the Persian’s answer. He gazed around on them disdainfully, for he was well aware that many there would utter a protest did they not fear for their own skins. Then he spoke.

“Give me arms and a ladder,” he said, “and I shall try to kill the beast.”

A murmur arose, like the hum of wind-tossed leaves presaging a storm. Some men might have been warned by it, but the Emperor, already half intoxicated, was now goaded to utter madness by his rival’s cool daring.

“Arms thou shalt have,” he screamed, “but what need is there of a ladder? Why not jump? There is sand beneath!”

Now this, indeed, was spurring Sher Afghán to his death, for the tiger would be on him with inconceivable speed ere he could recover his feet.

Among those who thronged breathlessly forward to hear all that passed, Roger Sainton listened and understood. The big Yorkshireman’s eyes glowed like live coals, and the veins on his neck bulged with sudden passion. It was in his mind to end the quarrel then and there by sweeping the Emperor and a row of his guards into the fosse, but a quaint idea suddenly gripped him, and, without any hesitation, he put it in force.

Thrusting the gapers left and right he reached the royal dais.

“If not a ladder, friend,” he said to Sher Afghán, “why not a step?”

With that, he stooped and caught hold of the huge block of black marble. Before anyone so much as grasped his intent he lifted it from its supports, toppling Jahangir and several of his favorites in a confused heap on the terrace. Then he pitched the mass of stone into the arena and it chanced to fall flat onto the crouching tiger.

His sword flashed out as several spear-men, having recovered their wits, made lunges at him.

“Hold back, good fellows!” he cried cheerily, for Roger’s anger never continued when steel was bared. “Mayhap the Emperor thinks the revel is ended!”

CHAPTER XI

“I do not set my life at a pin’s fee.” Hamlet, Act I.

Mortal fear has caused many a man to run who thought himself unable to walk. It now gave a tonic to an inebriate king. Jahangir, struggling to his feet, obtained a fleeting glimpse of Roger Sainton’s amazing achievement. He heard more definitely the crashing fall of the great stone into the arena, and his first emotion was one of profound thankfulness that he and several of his boon companions had not gone with it.

But instantly there came the knowledge that he had been treated with contumely before all his court. So his face, already pallid with terror, became even more white with anger, and words trembled on his lips which, if uttered, would have been the irrevocable signal for a wild tumult. Yet, hidden away in the brain of this headstrong debauchee there was a latent sense of king-craft which taught him caution, and deep down in his soul was a certain nobility of character which age and the cares of a ruler developed in later years. His quick eyes discovered what Roger had truly divined. There was many a powerful noble there ready to espouse the cause of Sher Afghán, whilst, such was the awe inspired by Sainton’s almost supernatural feat, it was more than likely the giant’s onslaught would create a mad stampede. Moreover, Jahangir himself was as conscious as any present that he had witnessed a deed whose memory would endure through the ages, and the warring influences in his breast sobered him for the moment.

With a self-control that was wholly creditable, he held up an authoritative hand.

“Who dares to strike ere the Emperor commands?” he cried, and his strong voice stilled the rising waves of agitation as oil beats down the crests of troubled waters.

Heedless, or perhaps unknowing, that his turban was awry, he walked to the edge of the parapet and looked over. There lay the fine marble slab, broken in two as it remains to this day, though it was quickly restored to its old-time site. Bound to it were the silken cords which fastened the imperial chair, the seat itself having been crushed into a thousand splinters underneath.

He turned towards Roger; though a cruel despot, Jahangir was a sportsman: —

“Did it fall on the tiger?” he asked.

The big man pretended to scan the arena.

“As the beast is nowhere else to be seen I doubt not he is on the right side of the stone, your Majesty,” he answered.

“Why did you not warn me of your intent? I would have given a lakh of rupees to have seen this thing.”

Roger was far too quick-witted not to accept the cue thus thrown to him.

“There was scant time for words, your Majesty,” he said. “In another instant your devoted servant, Sher Afghán, would have been in the pit with the snarling brute. For sure you meant but to try him. Nevertheless, I made bold to interfere, as there is many a tiger, but only one such man among your vassals.”

The big man’s humor was mordant, but the excited throng chose to ignore the implied disparagement, and a murmur of applause told the Emperor that in curbing his wrath he had acted with exceeding wisdom.

“You are right,” he said slowly. “I am much beholden to you, and that is more than some kings would say who had been flung headlong to the ground. But see,” he added, making a brave show of nonchalance as he faced the crowd and waved a haughty hand toward the west, “the hour of evening prayer approaches. Let us to the mosque!”

“Now look you,” murmured Sainton to Walter, who stood watchful, with sword-arm ready, during these thrilling moments, “there goes a man with murder in his heart, yet will he turn his jowl to Mecca and chant verses from the Koran with the best of them.”

“I fear he only bides his time. But what good fairy prompted you to act in such a way? I knew not what to do. I felt that any moment we might be fighting for our lives, yet I saw no loophole of escape.”

“Ecod, I remembered my mother telling me that a white sheet makes nine parts of a ghost on a dark night. I reckoned to scare ’em with a bogie, and succeeded.”

In company with Sher Afghán, they quitted the palace fortress without let or hindrance. The gallant Persian, after thanking Roger for his aid, explained his motive in returning to Agra. He had reached the Garden of Heart’s Delight only an hour after they quitted it that morning. Hence, Jahangir was evidently quite well informed as to his movements, and had planned the escapade with the tiger as a means of requiting one, at least, of his avowed enemies. Indeed, they learned later that, in the event of Sher Afghán’s death, the spear-men were ordered to close round Sainton and Mowbray and bear them down by sheer force of numbers if they strove to assist their friend. Roger had defeated the scheme only by taking advantage of a prior moment of intense excitement.

When Sher Afghán told them that Nur Mahal and he, with their retinue, had taken up their residence in the Diwán’s house, the Englishmen wished to return forthwith to the caravansary. But this the Persian would in no wise permit. He sat late with them that evening, and, from words which fell now and then in the talk, they gathered that while he was even more enamored than ever of his wife the haughty beauty herself was far from being content with her lot.

“She intended to be a queen,” he sighed once, “and, alas, my kingdom is too small and rude to suit her tastes.”

“Why, then, did you not send her to Burdwán, and come here alone in deference to the king’s command?” asked Walter.

“Because there she would pine in solitude. Here, I have good hopes that Jahangir’s profligacy will disgust her. Already I have heard grave rumors of court dissensions. Saw you not to-day how ready were many to oppose him?”

“Thank Heaven it was so, else naught could have saved us. But what of the morrow? You will incur constant danger. As for us, we have well nigh abandoned all hope of gaining the reward of our venture. Were it not for my stout-hearted friend we had endeavored long ere this to leave our fortunes a sunken ship in Agra.”

“Say not so. The shame of foregoing Akbar’s obligations would travel far, and the King cannot afford to lose his good name with traders. Bide on in content. His mood changes each hour, and surely the day will come when he shall treat you royally. I have good cause to hate Jahangir, yet I would never say of him that he is wholly ignoble.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a servant, who announced that a store of wine had been sent from the palace for the Feringhis.

“Gad!” cried Roger, “that cat-footed servitor hath not forgotten my request. And it is good liquor, too.”

Sher Afghán was very suspicious of the gift until they apprised him of all that had happened. Though he would not drink he smelt and tasted samples of the wine, which, apparently, had not been tampered with in any way. His brow cleared when he convinced himself that no trick was intended.

“I told you,” he said, “that Jahangir’s nature owed something to his lineage. May Allah grant him wit enough to win me and others to his side by reason of his forebearance!”

With this magnanimous wish on his lips he quitted them. They were fated soon to recall his words in bitterness and despair. Jahangir, sunk in renewed orgy, and twitted by his evil associates with the failure of the afternoon’s device, was even then devoting himself, with an almost diabolical ingenuity, to a fresh plot for their undoing.

He limned the project fully, but declared with scorn that it needed a man of courage to carry it out, and there was not one such in his court.

Whereupon, Kutub-ud-din, his foster-brother, who was noted chiefly for the girth of his paunch, but who, nevertheless, had some reputation for personal bravery, sprang up from the cushions on which he reposed and cried: —

“Give me the vice-royalty of Bengal and I swear, by the beard of the Prophet, to bring you news of Sher Afghán’s death ere day dawns.”

The Emperor paused. It was a high price, but the memory of Nur Mahal’s beauty rushed on him like a flood, and he said: —

“Keep thy vow and I shall keep my bond.”

The conspirators knew nothing of Roger’s pact with the chamberlain, else their task were made more easy. But there is in India a poisonous herb called dhatura, the presence of which cannot be detected in food or drink. Taken in any considerable quantity, it conveys sure death, quick and painless as the venom of a cobra; in less degree it induces lethargy, followed by heavy sleep.

Now, Sher Afghán’s doubts of the Emperor’s wine were justified to this extent, that it had been slightly tinctured with dhatura, in the belief that Mowbray and Sainton would drink heavily during the midday meal, and thus be rendered slow of thought and sluggish in action when put to the test by the Persian’s encounter with the tiger. Such drugs, thwarted by the unforeseen, oft have exactly the opposite effects to those intended. Their state of rude health, and the exciting scenes which took place before the Emperor played his ultimate card and failed, caused the poison to stimulate rather than retard their faculties.

With night came reaction and weariness. Nevertheless, they did not retire to rest until nearly an hour after Sher Afghán left them. They drank a little more of the wine, discussed their doubtful position for the hundredth time, and thus unconsciously spun another strand in the spider’s web of fate, for Jahangir, whom fortune so aided, might have spent his life in vain conjecture ere he guessed the circumstance which in part defeated his malice.

While the two talked the glorious moon of India, late risen, sailed slowly across the blue arc of the heavens, and garbed all things in silver and black. The air was chill, but these hardy Britons were warmly clad, and they preferred the cold majesty of nature’s own lamp to the evil-smelling oil and smoky wicks which, at that period, were the only means of lighting Indian houses.

When, at last, they stretched themselves on the charpoys which, for greater safety, they placed side by side in a spacious chamber of the suite they occupied, they did not undress, but threw off their heavy riding-boots, unfastened their coats, and arranged their swords so as to be ready to hand at a moment’s notice. They knew that Sher Afghán’s trusty retainers guarded the gate and slept in each veranda. There was little fear of being taken by surprise in the unlikely event of an armed attack being made during the night, yet they neglected no precautions.