powerful as an emperor – was as nothing compared to the seemingly never-ending cycles of movement of the stars within the fathomless universe. If he followed their signs his reign would surely prosper.
And what his aunt had said about Gulrukh . . . that was also wrong. Of course, like all those at court she wanted the emperor’s good will. Maybe she hoped that by pleasing him she’d secure favours and privileges for her sons, his half-brothers Kamran and Askari . . . but that was all. The mind-expanding journeys on which Gulrukh’s dark, opium-laced wine took him were her gift to him and he would not, could not give them up . . .not when they were bringing him ever closer to unravelling the mysteries of existence.
‘Let whoever is striking the drum approach. Today is Friday – the day when I am ready to dispense justice to even the most humble of my subjects.’ Humayun smiled as he sat on his high-backed throne. This was the first time in the six months that it had been sitting outside his audience chamber that anyone had struck the great ox-hide drum to demand justice of the emperor. At the beginning the sound had been faint and uneven and for a moment had seemed to stop entirely. Then Humayun had heard it again. Whoever was beating the Drum of Justice seemed to have taken courage. The booms had grown louder and more frequent. He’d known this moment would come just as – in time – his ministers would accept the reforms he was making. Even old Kasim, standing so solemn-faced by the side of his throne, would acknowledge he’d been right.
The footsteps of six of his blue-turbaned bodyguards rang on the stone floor as they marched out to the courtyard. When they returned, a young Hindu woman in a red silk sari with a red tilak mark on her forehead was with them. Her long dark hair was streaming unbound over her shoulders and her expression was both nervous and determined. The guards brought her to within ten feet of the throne and she knelt before him.
‘Rise. The emperor is ready to hear your request,’ said Kasim. ‘You may be assured that you will receive justice.’
The woman glanced uncertainly at the glittering, bejewelled figure of Humayun on his throne as if she could not quite believe she was in his presence. ‘Majesty, my name is Sita. I am the wife of a merchant in Agra. My husband deals in spices like cinnamon, saffron and cloves. A week ago he was returning to Agra with a small mule train carrying goods he had purchased in the markets in Delhi. Two days’ ride from here – near our holy Hindu city of Mathura – he and his men were attacked by dacoits who robbed them of everything they were carrying – even stripping the clothes off their backs. The dacoits were about to ride away with the mules when a party of your soldiers came riding by. The soldiers killed the dacoits but instead of restoring his goods to my husband they jeered at him. They said that he was bleating like a sheep and that was how he deserved to be treated. Cutting the ropes with which the dacoits had bound him, they made him run naked and barefoot over the hot sand, chasing him on horseback and mocking and pricking him with the tips of their spears. When finally they had tired of their sport, they rode off leaving him lying exhausted and bleeding in the dust.And with them they took all my husband’s mules with their precious cargo of spices . . .’
Sita’s voice was trembling with anger and indignation but she raised her chin and looked Humayun squarely in the face. ‘I seek justice for my husband. He is a loyal subject of Your Majesty and no longer young.Your soldiers should have protected not abused him. Now he is lying at home covered in festering wounds inflicted by them . . .’
Kasim stepped forward, ready to question the woman, but Humayun waved him back. The soldiers’ behaviour reflected on his dignity. He must be like the sun to his subjects. His light and warmth must fall on them all but this poor
And what his aunt had said about Gulrukh . . . that was also wrong. Of course, like all those at court she wanted the emperor’s good will. Maybe she hoped that by pleasing him she’d secure favours and privileges for her sons, his half-brothers Kamran and Askari . . . but that was all. The mind-expanding journeys on which Gulrukh’s dark, opium-laced wine took him were her gift to him and he would not, could not give them up . . .not when they were bringing him ever closer to unravelling the mysteries of existence.
‘Let whoever is striking the drum approach. Today is Friday – the day when I am ready to dispense justice to even the most humble of my subjects.’ Humayun smiled as he sat on his high-backed throne. This was the first time in the six months that it had been sitting outside his audience chamber that anyone had struck the great ox-hide drum to demand justice of the emperor. At the beginning the sound had been faint and uneven and for a moment had seemed to stop entirely. Then Humayun had heard it again. Whoever was beating the Drum of Justice seemed to have taken courage. The booms had grown louder and more frequent. He’d known this moment would come just as – in time – his ministers would accept the reforms he was making. Even old Kasim, standing so solemn-faced by the side of his throne, would acknowledge he’d been right.
The footsteps of six of his blue-turbaned bodyguards rang on the stone floor as they marched out to the courtyard. When they returned, a young Hindu woman in a red silk sari with a red tilak mark on her forehead was with them. Her long dark hair was streaming unbound over her shoulders and her expression was both nervous and determined. The guards brought her to within ten feet of the throne and she knelt before him.
‘Rise. The emperor is ready to hear your request,’ said Kasim. ‘You may be assured that you will receive justice.’
The woman glanced uncertainly at the glittering, bejewelled figure of Humayun on his throne as if she could not quite believe she was in his presence. ‘Majesty, my name is Sita. I am the wife of a merchant in Agra. My husband deals in spices like cinnamon, saffron and cloves. A week ago he was returning to Agra with a small mule train carrying goods he had purchased in the markets in Delhi. Two days’ ride from here – near our holy Hindu city of Mathura – he and his men were attacked by dacoits who robbed them of everything they were carrying – even stripping the clothes off their backs. The dacoits were about to ride away with the mules when a party of your soldiers came riding by. The soldiers killed the dacoits but instead of restoring his goods to my husband they jeered at him. They said that he was bleating like a sheep and that was how he deserved to be treated. Cutting the ropes with which the dacoits had bound him, they made him run naked and barefoot over the hot sand, chasing him on horseback and mocking and pricking him with the tips of their spears. When finally they had tired of their sport, they rode off leaving him lying exhausted and bleeding in the dust.And with them they took all my husband’s mules with their precious cargo of spices . . .’
Sita’s voice was trembling with anger and indignation but she raised her chin and looked Humayun squarely in the face. ‘I seek justice for my husband. He is a loyal subject of Your Majesty and no longer young.Your soldiers should have protected not abused him. Now he is lying at home covered in festering wounds inflicted by them . . .’
Kasim stepped forward, ready to question the woman, but Humayun waved him back. The soldiers’ behaviour reflected on his dignity. He must be like the sun to his subjects. His light and warmth must fall on them all but this poor
Similar Books
The Lowest Heaven
Alastair Reynolds, Adam Roberts, Sophia McDougall, Kaaron Warren, E.J. Swift, Kameron Hurley
