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 Arangbar's evenings in the Diwan-i-Khas. Even his requests for an audience had been ignored. Before the poet's death, it had been possible for him to believe that the absurdity of Samad and Shirin's arrest would eventually Resolve itself, that the nightmare would fade into reality and bring their release. But the killing of Samad had blotted out that illusion. When he saw Arangbar, presiding high above the square, signal the Sufi's death, he had realized finally the nightmare was all too real. Since that time he had spent the sleepless nights alone, distraught, counting the passage of each hour as he awaited news Shirin was also dead. In his mind he had conceived a dozen stratagems to try to save her, a dozen arguments, threats, bargains for her release, but nothing could be done if he was denied even an audience with the Moghul.
That they should have tasted so much, only to lose it all. He found himself aware, for the first time ever, how much he could want, could need, a woman like Shirin beside him. With her, life itself seemed renewed. She was like no other he had ever known: strong, beautiful, self-willed. He had found himself admiring the last most of all, even though he still found it startling. But the love he had known with her in his arms now only made the despair deeper. Nothing was left. Now there was only abiding sorrow, loss beyond healing. She had given him something he had never known, something he realized—for the first time ever—he no longer wanted to live without. He would have taken her place a hundred times over, but even that seemed impossible.
Then, that morning, hope had appeared, almost a miracle., A sudden, urgent message had been delivered, instructing him to appear once more in the Diwan-i-Khas. It almost certainly meant Arangbar had received word of the English fleet. If Shirin were still alive, and there had been no news of her death, it must mean that the Moghul was uncertain about her guilt: he was not a man who normally waited to act. And if she was alive, all things again became possible . . .