The Moghul Part 61

"I am Amanat Mubarik, Your Majesty. I maintain a thousand horse, the finest Arabian blood in India." The man stood straight and spoke with a loud, clear voice.

"Is not your stipend the amount prescribed any man who maintains that number?"

"It is, Your Highness. But I am not any man. I am a Pathan, and my father was Fath Shah. No enemy of Your Majesty has ever seen the back of my shield. His Highness, Prince Parwaz, saw me defend the royal encampment five years ago when he moved south of the Narbada. With my cavalry I held position when all others called for retreat. I challenge any man here today to do me battle in your presence. With any weapon.

On horseback or on foot. Then you may decide if I am as other men."

The Moghul examined him carefully for a long moment.

"If you are not like other men, then I will let you prove it." Arangbar pointed beyond the marble porticoes. "Will you fight with the lion?"

The Pathan commander turned and stared blankly into the sunlit square, where the captured lion was snarling and pawing at its chains.

"A lion is a wild beast, Your Majesty. What trial is it for a man to contest with a lion?"

"I think it would be the best trial of all." Arangbar's eyes began to glow.

"A beast has no understanding, Majesty." He shifted nervously as he realized Arangbar was not jesting. "It's not a fit thing for a man to fight."

"You will joust with him." The fancy seemed to flood Arangbar with pleasure, and he turned abruptly to one of the guards. "Give him a glove and a truncheon. That should suffice for a man who claims bravery above all others."

Hawksworth watched in disbelief as the dazed commander was led from the _Diwan-i-Am_ and into the quadrangle. A murmur of amazement pa.s.sed through the crowd.

The square cleared quickly as the lion was brought forward by its keepers. Still incredulous, the Pathan slowly pulled the heavy glove onto his left hand, then he took the truncheon, no more than a foot and a half long, in his right. Guards took his swords and turban and in moments he and the lion were faced off in the afternoon sunshine.

Hawksworth forced himself to watch as the commander began to spar with the lion, a young male with powerful claws. He managed to cudgel the lion several times, with the effect that it became more enraged than harmed. Then with a roar it sprang, pulling free of its keepers, and they went down together, rolling in the dust of the square.

The Pathan continued to bravely cudgel the lion, even while its claws ripped across his face and arms. Hawksworth watched the lion's hard tail whip for balance as it pawed again and again at the truncheon.

Suddenly the man pulled free of its grasp and, with a wide arcing swing, brought the truncheon directly across the crown of the lion's head. Its rear haunches clawed upward spastically and then it pitched unconscious into the b.l.o.o.d.y dust, its body still twitching.

A cheer rose from the crowd of onlookers as the Pathan slowly drew himself erect. Hawksworth realized that the right side of his face had been completely ripped away by the lion's sharp claws. He made a few halting steps toward the _Diwan-i-Am_, wheeled dizzily, and collapsed in a pool of blood. He was dead by the time the guards reached him.

Arangbar had watched in spellbound delight. He clapped his hands and turned to Parwaz, whose glazed eyes seemed not to have fully comprehended the spectacle.

"Astounding. I never knew a man could kill a lion with a mere club. He was braver than he knew. If he has sons, I will allow them to keep half his estate." Arangbar turned to the guard captain standing by the curtained entrance. "Tomorrow select ten of your best men and we will bring more lions. What better test of bravery?"

The uniformed men standing at attention around the perimeter of the _Diwan-i-Am_ all blanched but their eyes remained fixed straight ahead.

Then Arangbar suddenly remembered Hawksworth.

"Does England have men as brave as ours, Amba.s.sador?"

Hawksworth felt a cold sweat in his palms.

"No man in England would dare challenge one of Your Majesty's lions."

Arangbar laughed loudly. Before he could respond, the _wazir_ was whispering in his ear. He glanced at the marble screen directly behind his throne and nodded. Then he turned to Hawksworth.

"We are called away, Amba.s.sador. I'm told I must take my afternoon rest. This is the time of day I retire to the _zenana_ for one _pahar_." He winked and gestured toward the marble screen. "Her Majesty rules our time. But I want to speak more with you today about this island of England. And about your king's schedule for trade. You will attend me in the Diwan-i-Khas this evening."

"As Your Majesty pleases."

As Arangbar rose his eye caught the painting. He picked it up and scrutinized it, then turned to Hawksworth.

"Is this a fair example of Inglish painting?"

"It came from the school of a celebrated artist, Your Majesty. His Majesty, King James, sat to have it painted especially for you."

Hawksworth sensed that Arangbar had taken more interest in the painting than in any of the other gifts, except perhaps the hat. "The painters of England are the finest in the world."

The Moghul stirred slightly and then summoned a small, wiry man with heavy brows from the first row of courtiers. He briskly moved to the front and salaamed to Arangbar. The Moghul pa.s.sed the painting to him and together they studied it, conversing quietly in Persian. Then Arangbar turned to Hawksworth.

"We have a school of artists here in the palace, Amba.s.sador Khawksworth. This man, who directs the school, says this portrait's background is too dark, the eyes lifeless. And it is neither three- quarter nor full face, as is our proven convention. Consequently it gives no sense of your king's depth of character." Arangbar smiled. "He also says the portraits he and his men execute are far more difficult.

They catch the soul of the man, not merely his physical likeness."

"May it please Your Majesty, I cannot accept what he says."

Arangbar translated to the artist, who replied quickly in Persian, casting a quick, contemptuous glance at Hawksworth.

"He declares he could easily duplicate this simple portrait of your king, in a likeness so exact you could not tell his copy from the original."

"Such a thing is not possible, Your Majesty. No man in the world could execute this exact painting, save the man who first put in on paper."

Arangbar again translated for his painter, who replied animatedly.

"My Chief Painter says he and his workshop could easily

produce four copies of this, any one of which would pa.s.s for the original."

"May it please Your Majesty, I say it is impossible. European painting is a centuries' old tradition, requiring years of apprenticeship and study."

The men around Hawksworth had begun to shift uncomfortably. The Moghul was never contradicted. Yet he seemed to relish the dispute.

"Then we'll set a wager. What will you wager me, Amba.s.sador, that I can make this one painting of your king into five?"

"I know not what to lay with so great a prince, nor does it befit me to name a sum to Your Majesty." Hawksworth shifted uneasily, unsure of the protocol of betting with kings.

"Then if you'll not wager with me, wager with my painter."

"Begging Your Majesty's pardon, your painter is no more suited to wager with an amba.s.sador than I am to wager with Your Majesty."

"Then wager with my prime minister." He turned to Nadir Sharif. "What will you lay?"

"Five thousand gold mohurs, Majesty."

Hawksworth swallowed hard, realizing the amount was almost ten thousand pounds English sterling, more money than he had ever seen.

"Money is not an honorable bet among those who speak for great princes, Your Majesty." Hawksworth glanced about wildly, then an idea came. "But perhaps I could wager your prime minister a horse, a fine Arabian stallion."

"Done." Arangbar beamed. "I'll have the paintings tonight."

The painter stared at Arangbar in dismay.