The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie Page A

to be hers, and be aroused.
    She waited for him to say it, but he didn’t. Something was different. There was an impatience in him now, even an irritation, an annoyance she did not understand. It was as if the many sophistications of the lover’s art had lost their charms and he wished simply to possess her and be done with it. She understood that he had changed. And now everything else would change as well.

    As for the emperor, he never again referred to himself in the singular in the presence of another person. He was plural in the eyes of the world, plural even in the judgment of the woman who loved him, and plural he would remain. He had learned his lesson.

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    His sons riding their horses at speed
    H is sons riding their horses at speed, aiming lances at tent-pegs in the ground; his sons, still on horseback, excelling at the game of
chaugan,
swinging long sticks with curved feet and striking a ball into a netted goal; his sons playing polo at night with a luminous ball; his sons on hunting parties, being initiated into the mysteries of leopard shooting by the master of the hunt; his sons taking part in the “game of love,”
ishqbazi,
an affair of racing pigeons…how beautiful they were, his sons! How mightily they played! See the Crown Prince Salim, at only fourteen already so expert an archer that the rules of the sport were being rewritten to accommodate him. Ah, Murad, Daniyal, my gallopers, the emperor thought. How he loved them, and yet what wastrels they were! Look at their eyes: they were already drunk. They were eleven and ten years old and they were already drunk, drunk in charge of horses, the fools. He had given strict instructions to the staff, but these were princes of the blood, and no servant dared gainsay them.
    He was having them spied on, of course, so he knew all about Salim’s opium habit and nightly feats of perverted lechery. Perhaps it was understandable that a young fellow in the first flush of his potency should develop a fondness for sodomizing wenches, but a word in his ear would soon be necessary, because the dancing girls were complaining, their bruised rears, their vandalized pomegranate buds, made it harder for them to perform, the little whores.
    O, alas, alas for his debauched children, flesh of his flesh, heir to all his failings and none of his strengths! Prince Murad’s falling sickness had thus far been concealed from the populace at large, but for how long? And Daniyal seemed good for nothing, seemed to not have any personality at all, though he had inherited the family good looks, an achievement in which he could take no legitimate pride, although, in his preening vanity, he did. Was it harsh to judge a ten-year-old boy in this way? Yes, of course it was, but these were not boys. They were little gods, the despots of the future: born, unfortunately, to rule. He loved them. They would betray him. They were the lights of his life. They would come for him while he slept. The little assfuckers. He was waiting for their moves.
    The king wished, today as he did every day, that he could trust his sons. He trusted Birbal and Jodha and Abul Fazl and Todar Mal but he kept the boys under close surveillance. He longed to trust them so that they could be the strong supports of his old age. He dreamed of relying on their six beautiful eyes when his own grew dim, and on their six strong arms when his own lost their power, acting in unison at his behest, so that he would truly become as a god, many-headed, multilimbed. He wanted to trust them because he thought of trust as a virtue and wished to cultivate it, but he knew the history of his blood, he knew that trustworthiness was not his people’s habit. His sons would grow up into glittering heroes with excellent mustaches and they would turn against him, he could already see it in their eyes. Among their kind, among the Chaghatai of Ferghana, it was customary for children to plot against their crowned sires, to attempt to dethrone