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‘It’s a fine building.’
    ‘Yes. It was built by the Emperor Akbar – may his spirit rest in Paradise – after his conquest of Bengal. He also reinforced the city walls and built the fine caravanserais that we have here. He was truly a great man.’
    ‘I’m sure. Who commands the Moghul troops here? Hemust be an important man to be so favoured by the emperor.’
    ‘I don’t know his name. I’m sorry.’
    ‘It’s not important. I was merely curious to know who was entrusted with such a task. Hindustan is so huge compared with my own country. There, it is far easier for a monarch to control his lands and to know what is going on . . .’
    ‘It is true. Our empire is without parallel in the world.’ Hassan Ali nodded complacently. ‘Come. Let me take you to the great bazaar where much trading is done in addition to that in the caravanserais.’
    They were just turning away when the harsh metallic blaring of a trumpet made them halt. Moments later twelve soldiers splendidly mounted on matching bay horses cantered out of a side street and across the parade ground towards the barracks. One of them was holding the short brass trumpet he must have just sounded to signal their arrival. They were followed by three further riders – two in domed helmets riding on either side of a tall man who was looking to neither right nor left and whose long dark hair flowed from beneath a white-plumed helmet.
    Bartholomew’s pulses quickened. He glanced around for Hassan Ali and saw him conversing with a melon seller in a grimy dhoti. Bartholomew listened hard but couldn’t understand what they were saying. It must be a local language, he thought. It certainly wasn’t Persian. The melon seller seemed to have a lot to say. He had emerged from behind his mounds of cylindrical yellow-green fruits and was talking vigorously and pointing to the barracks into which the man with the plumed helmet and his escort had now disappeared.
    ‘Sir,’ said Hassan Ali, ‘the commander of the garrison is called Sher Afghan. That was him we just saw. The melon seller told me he is a great warrior. Two years ago the late emperor sent him to the jungles and swamps of Arakan east of here to deal with the pirates living there. It is a terrible place, infested with crocodiles, but Sher Afghan triumphed. He captured and executed five hundred pirates, throwing their bodies on to pyres of their own burning boats.’
    ‘Does he live in the barracks?’
    ‘No. His mansion is in a large garden to the north of the city, by the Swordmaker’s Gate. Now, let us go to the bazaar. You will find much to interest you there . . . last time I was here I saw a painted wooden figure of one of your Portuguese gods. It had golden wings . . .’

    Bartholomew bided his time. Every day the rains still came, hot and heavy, the drops bouncing up from the paved courtyard of the caravanserai. In between the showers he put on the hooded dark brown robe he had purchased in the bazaar to make his appearance less remarkable and walked around Gaur until he had fixed in his mind every twist of every street, every alley, in the area between the barracks and Sher Afghan’s house. He also observed his intended victim’s movements which, apart from the odd day’s hunting or hawking when the weather allowed, seemed surprisingly regular. Nearly every afternoon, Sher Afghan spent several hours in the barracks. On Mondays he reviewed his troops on the parade ground, watching their displays of musketry practice, and on Wednesdays he inspected some part of the city’s defences.
    During the long journey from Agra Bartholomew had pondered how best to find an opportunity to kill Sher Afghan. He smiled to think he had even contemplated trying to pick a quarrel with him as if Gaur were an English town where he and Sher Afghan might meet and brawl in a tavern. Now he had seen not just the muscular strength of the man but that a bodyguard accompanied him everywhere the idea had less to