Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  Chapter 9

  Salim

  ‘I’m sorry, Majesty, her monthly blood is flowing.’ The khawajasara looked nervously at Akbar as if Hirabai’s failure to conceive could somehow be blamed on her. ‘Her Highness remains melancholy, as she has been ever since your marriage. She will hardly eat. She seldom leaves her apartments to walk in the haram gardens. She talks only with the maids she brought with her from Amber and keeps herself apart from the other women, never joining in with their games or entertainments. Perhaps she has a sickness . . . Should I summon a hakim to examine her again?’

  ‘No.’ It was only six weeks ago that an elderly doctor, a piece of cloth placed over his head to conceal the other inhabitants of the haram from his aged eyes, had been led by two eunuchs to Hirabai’s apartments. Akbar had watched as, emerging from under the cloth like a tortoise poking its head from its shell, the hakim had examined Hirabai, running his hands over her body beneath her loose cotton shift. ‘I can find nothing wrong, Majesty,’ he had said at last. ‘The entrance to her womb is strong and well formed.’

  Akbar looked broodingly at the khawajasara, tall, big-boned, well fleshed and handsome despite her forty or so years, who had become superintendent of the haram on the retirement of the woman who had brought him Mayala all those years ago. But it was Hirabai he saw before his eyes. Every time he made love to her he hoped for some change, but always she lay limp and unresponsive. Her passivity disturbed him more than if she had tried to fight him off. Did she still dream of stabbing him? He had ordered the khawajasara to ensure there was nothing sharp in the empress’s apartments. The superintendent had looked at him a little curiously but had of course obeyed. It was as much for Hirabai’s protection as for his own – sometimes he feared she might try to harm herself. He had had her apartments moved to a double-tiered pavilion that, though overlooking the Jumna, had windows inset with fretted marble screens from which it was impossible to jump.

  ‘Majesty?’

  He had forgotten the khawajasara was still there. ‘You are dismissed. Come to me again next month when – God willing – you may bring better news.’

  Akbar sat alone for a while. Outside the sky was fresh and clear. The rains were over and he should have been out hunting or hawking. Why did thoughts of Hirabai preoccupy him? It wasn’t love, but perhaps it was pride . . . All the court must know things were amiss between the emperor and his bride. They never ate or spent time together except for his nocturnal visits to her bed. Even then, as soon as he was finished he returned to his own apartments. He had never woken in her arms as the pale dawn light came slanting in.

  Perhaps his mother would have some words of wisdom – or at least of comfort. Till now he had hesitated to confide in her, hoping each month to hear that Hirabai was pregnant. But time was passing. He was being distracted from the matters that should be occupying his mind, and – if the stories the elderly Jauhar had told him were true – something yet more pernicious was gathering momentum. Bhagwan Das had been right to predict that Akbar’s marriage to a non-Muslim would be criticised. The mullahs were whispering that Akbar’s childless state was a punishment for marrying an infidel Hindu.

  Hamida was reading, but seeing Akbar she put her book of poetry down. ‘What is it? You look troubled.’

  ‘The khawajasara has just made her report to me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Hirabai has still not conceived.’

  ‘You must be patient. Remember you have only been married six months.’

  ‘That’s what I tell myself. But how much longer will I have to wait?’

  ‘You are a young man. You will take other wives. There will be children – sons – even if they are not Hirabai’s.’

  ‘It’s not just a matter of my own impatience. Jauhar came to me two weeks ago. Since I made him my vizier he is even better informed about what is being said around the court.’

  ‘Court gossip doesn’t matter.’

  ‘This does. Some of the senior clerics – the ulama – are claiming that Hirabai will never bear a child. They say it’s God’s judgement on me for my crime against Islam in marrying an unbeliever.’

  ‘You rule the empire, not the ulama.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of them or of their narrow prejudices. At first, I admit, I did wonder whether there was anything in their words, but the more I thought about it the more impossible I found it to believe that a merciful, compassionate God would reject people simply because they hold different beliefs. But some of my subjects may begin to heed their arguments, however absurd. This could sow hatred and division. The ulama know perfectly well why I married a Hindu – not only to strengthen a military alliance but to show that all can prosper under the Moghuls regardless of religion . . .’

  ‘You are wise,’ Hamida said. ‘You see potential dangers early.’

  ‘That’s what my father encouraged me to do. He said he hadn’t understood the threat his half-brothers posed until it was nearly too late.’

  ‘That is true. It almost cost us our lives.’

  ‘I mustn’t make the same mistake, even though the dangers I face are different.’

  ‘Tell me about Hirabai. I know you are unhappy . . . forgive me, but I hear things, and so does Gulbadan. Does Hirabai not please you?’

  ‘She hates me.’

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘She blames me for executing Rajput officers at Chittorgarh and for razing the fortress . . . she thinks of me as the destroyer of her people.’

  ‘How can she, when her own brother is glad to call himself your ally?’

  Akbar shrugged. ‘I think she despises him for it . . . but she won’t discuss her feelings.’

  ‘Are you sure you understand her properly? Perhaps she finds our court alien and is homesick for Rajasthan. In time she may change.’

  ‘I do understand her, Mother. On our wedding night she tried to stab me.’ Akbar had not meant to say it but the words were out before he could stop them.

  ‘She did what?’ Any sympathy for her daughter-in-law vanished from Hamida’s face and her eyes flashed. ‘Then you should have had her executed, just as your father should have killed his brothers when they first rebelled . . . You said you had learned from his mistakes, yet you lie with a woman who wishes you dead. I don’t understand.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t. That was why I didn’t tell you. I have kept Hirabai as my wife because of what it symbolises to my people. The alliance has pleased the Rajputs. Had I rejected or executed her how could our alliance have held? And Hirabai’s freedom to worship her gods is living proof that my Hindu subjects have nothing to fear from me. The wider world knows nothing of our lives at court. They see simply that the Moghul emperor has taken a royal Hindu bride and they rejoice.’

  Hamida was silent, her fine brow wrinkled in thought. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ she said at last. ‘Shock and maternal anger made me speak as I did. I will reveal to no one – not even Gulbadan – what you have just told me, but my attendants will watch Hirabai and make sure that she is doing nothing to prevent or to end a pregnancy. Many such tricks are known in the haram – potions of bitter herbs, sponges soaked in vinegar and pushed deep inside before intercourse, even twigs wrapped in sheep’s wool and inserted afterwards to scour the womb – and the Rajput women too may have their methods.’

  ‘She is already watched. The khawajasara, observing through her jali screen, records our couplings and is looking for signs of anything untoward . . . I only hope it isn’t hatred that prevents Hirabai from conceiving. She is strong-willed and the mind can rule the body. Sometimes I worry that even if she did bear me a child such a birth could not be auspicious.’

  ‘That is foolish, Akbar. And who knows . . . Hirabai is very young. With a child she may change . . .’

  ‘She’s not as young as you were when you married my father.’

  ‘I was lucky. Your father chose me out of love and I loved him. Also, I was only the daughter of a nobleman. I wasn’t royal like Hi
rabai with all the weight of an ancient lineage on my shoulders. Things were perhaps simpler for your father and me.’

  ‘Even though you endured so much hardship and danger?’

  ‘Perhaps because of it, who knows?’ For the first time since he had told her of Hirabai’s hatred of him, Hamida’s face softened. She was thinking of Humayun, he was sure. Would he ever feel for a woman the kind of love that had existed between his parents?

  ‘Akbar, perhaps I can help you. Gulbadan has told me of a Sufi mystic, Shaikh Salim Chishti. She has visited him and says that, just as my own grandfather did, he has the power to see into the future . . . Perhaps he can tell you something to ease your mind.’

  ‘Where does this Sufi live?’

  ‘In Sikri, not far from here.’

  ‘I know it. I stopped there once to drink from a well while out hunting.’

  ‘Perhaps I am wrong to suggest it. Your father in his youth became so preoccupied with what the stars could tell him about the future that he failed to see the dangers lurking around him. Sometimes it is better not to know what the future holds.’

  ‘No, I want to know. Then I can plan for it.’

  Akbar led his small troop along the dusty road and up the plateau towards Sikri. Two of his favourite hunting dogs were running alongside, pink tongues lolling, and his only escort apart from a few bodyguards were two huntsmen and his qorchi. A young deer he had shot as it burst from a thicket was already on its way to Agra, slung across the saddle of another huntsman he had sent back with it. It was sensible to maintain the fiction that this was a hunting party, Akbar thought. He didn’t want it known that he was consulting a mystic.

  Ahead, through the shimmering midday heat haze, he saw the outline of the cluster of mud-brick houses on the edge of the plateau that was Sikri. ‘We’ll rest there until the heat abates a little,’ he said to his qorchi. ‘I’ve heard stories of a Sufi mystic who lives in this village and I’m curious to see him. Ride up there and ask him if the emperor may visit him.’

  As the youth galloped ahead, Akbar followed more slowly, trotting up the steep slope and into the village where he dismounted in a pool of green-black shade beneath the dense foliage of a mango tree. A few minutes later, he saw his qorchi returning.

  ‘Majesty, Shaikh Salim Chishti bids you welcome. Come this way.’

  Akbar followed his squire through the village to a low single-storey house with only two slits on either side of the door for windows. Ducking inside, for a moment he found himself in darkness. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he made out an old man dressed entirely in robes of rough-spun white wool kneeling in prayer, head to the floor and facing in the direction of Mecca.

  ‘Forgive me, Majesty, I was praying to God for guidance so that I may help you.’ As he spoke the old man picked up a tinder box and with swift, efficient movements lit a candle in a clay holder. In the faint light Akbar saw a face crinkled as a walnut.

  ‘How did you know I’ve come for help?’ he asked, looking around him. The room was almost empty except for the dark red prayer rug, a rough-hewn wooden chest and the string charpoy that was the Sufi’s bed.

  ‘Everyone who seeks me is hoping for divine assistance, even though they may tell themselves they have only come out of curiosity. You look surprised, Majesty. Perhaps you think I claim too much for myself? I did not ask for my powers, but I know that by God’s divine grace I can sometimes be a conduit to him. Come and sit in front of me where I can see you.’

  Akbar squatted down on a piece of woven matting. For several minutes the Sufi said nothing, but his eyes, the irises curiously luminous like an owl’s, looked hard at Akbar, as if trying to divine his innermost thoughts. Then, swaying gently, long, slender hands folded against his chest, he began to intone, repeating over and over, ‘Give me your wisdom, show me the way.’ When was the holy man going to ask him why he’d come? Akbar wondered. But as he waited a sense of peace and tranquillity began to possess him. His eyes were closing and his body and mind beginning to relax, cares and anxieties, desires and ambitions rolling away until he felt unsullied and carefree as a child.

  ‘We are ready to begin.’ The Sufi reached out a hand and gently touched Akbar’s shoulder. Akbar opened his eyes with a start, wondering how long he had been in that half-dreaming state that had been so strangely pleasurable. ‘What is it you wish to know, Majesty?’

  ‘Whether my wife will bear me a son.’

  ‘Is that all? That is a simple question.’

  ‘Perhaps not so simple. You know that the empress is a Hindu?’

  ‘Of course, Majesty. All of Hindustan knows that.’

  ‘As a Muslim yourself, do you believe her childlessness could be God’s way of punishing me for marrying an unbeliever?’

  ‘No. As a Sufi I believe there are many roads to God and that it is for each of us to find him.’

  ‘Whatever our faith?’

  ‘Yes. God belongs to us all.’

  That was true, Akbar thought, gazing into the Sufi’s searching yellow eyes. He had been foolish to wonder even for a moment whether there was any truth in what the ulama were alleging. Perhaps he had been equally foolish to fear that Hirabai’s antipathy towards him was the reason she hadn’t conceived . . . Things he’d never thought his pride or his position would allow him to reveal to a stranger came tumbling out.

  ‘She doesn’t love me. Each time I lie with her I see her contempt for me . . . I have tried to be good to her . . .’

  But the Sufi raised his hand. ‘Move closer.’

  Akbar leaned forward and the Sufi took his face in his hands and pulled it gently towards him until Akbar’s forehead was resting against his own. Again a wondrous sense of well-being flooded through Akbar and his mind felt bathed in light.

  ‘You needn’t fear, Majesty. Your wife will soon bear you a fine son. And you will have two more sons. The Moghul bloodline will flourish here in Hindustan for many generations, nourished by your conquests and your vision of a powerful and united empire.’

  ‘Thank you, Shaikh Salim Chishti. Thank you.’ Akbar bowed his head. His confidence was renewed, his self-doubts stilled. Everything would be as he wished, he was certain. He would build a mighty empire, with sons to help him, and when he died they would continue his work . . . the dynasty would flourish. ‘When what you say comes to pass, I will found a great city here at Sikri to honour you. Its gardens and fountains and palaces will be a wonder of the world and I will move my court here from Agra.’

  ‘When your wife conceives, send her here. Outside the village is a small monastery where she will be cared for, and perhaps away from the court her mind will grow calmer and she can prepare for motherhood more easily.’

  ‘Could she practise her religion here?’

  ‘Of course. As I told you, many paths lead to God and to the knowledge of ourselves and the universe we crave. We must each choose our own.’

  ‘Then I will indeed send her here.’ Akbar rose. ‘Thank you. You have brought me comfort and hope.’

  ‘I am glad. But there is something else I should tell you, and this time you may not welcome it.’

  ‘What is it?’ Akbar placed his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder, still sinewy and strong beneath his coarse woollen robe.

  ‘Though you will have three strong sons, remember that love of power, the desire to possess it, can poison even the closest family bonds. Do not take the love of your sons for you – or for each other – for granted.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you speaking of family rivalries like those my father endured?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Majesty. Though I foresee that you will have sons and your empire will flourish, beyond that I see shadows. They are as yet without shape, but perhaps they carry a warning. Be vigilant, Majesty. Remember my words. Keep watch over your sons as they grow to manhood so you can dispel those shadows before they take substance and do harm . . .’

  Riding back towards Agra later that day, Akbar pondered the Sufi’s warning. So man
y times since the days of his ancestor Timur the Moghuls had almost destroyed themselves by turning on each other rather than their enemies. He would watch for the signs and be on his guard. But all that lay far off in the future. Buoyed by the thought of three sons Akbar urged his horse to a yet faster pace.

  Six weeks later the khawajasara’s delighted face told Akbar everything he needed to know.

  ‘Majesty, at last it has happened.’

  ‘When will the child be born?’

  ‘The hakim says in August.’

  ‘I will go to the haram now.’ Akbar struggled to restrain tears of joy as he half ran to the women’s quarters. When he entered Hirabai’s apartments he smelled the familiar sweet spiciness of the incense sticks she always kept burning in a brass pot before a statue of an unsmiling, many-armed goddess. Hirabai was sitting on a low, lacquered Rajput stool as one of her maids combed out her thick hennaed hair. It seemed to Akbar that his wife’s face, grown so angular and drawn, was already softening and that her skin had a new bloom. Yet if he’d hoped for any softening in her manner to him he was disappointed. Her expression as she looked up at him was as distant and unyielding as ever.

  ‘Leave us,’ Akbar ordered the maid. As soon as they were alone, he asked, ‘Is it true? You really are pregnant?’

  ‘Yes. Surely the khawajasara told you.’

  ‘I wanted to hear it from my wife as a husband should. Hirabai – you are carrying my child, perhaps the future Moghul emperor. Is there nothing I can do or say to make you look more kindly on me or to make you happier?’

  ‘The only way would be to send me back to Amber, but that is impossible.’

  ‘You will be a mother soon. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  Hirabai hesitated. ‘I will love the child because the blood of my people will flow through its veins. But I will not pretend to feelings for you that I can never have. All I pray is that you take other wives and leave me in peace.’

  ‘Bear me a healthy son and I promise never to lie with you again.’ Hirabai said nothing. ‘I want you to make ready for a journey a week from now.’