‘Where are you sending me?’ For the first time her cold demeanour faltered and she looked anxious.
‘Don’t be afraid. I wish you to go to a place of good omen – Sikri. I did not tell you this before because I know you distrust my religion, but a Muslim mystic lives there. He predicted you would bear me a son and asked me to send you there, to a monastery where you will be well tended until the child is born. I will send the best of my hakims with you and you may take all the attendants you wish. The air is good there – cooler and healthier than in Agra. It will be beneficial for you and the child you carry and you may worship your own gods there.’
Hirabai looked down at her hands folded on her lap. ‘It will be as you wish, of course.’
‘Shall I send word to your brother?’
Hirabai nodded. Akbar waited a few moments, hoping she might say something else. ‘I will love the child,’ she had said, but would she? If she hated the father, what affection could she feel for the son? For a moment he pondered the Sufi’s warning. Was his wife’s hostility one of the distant shadows he had glimpsed? With a last searching look at Hirabai’s half-averted face, he left her. Free from the frigid aura surrounding her, he felt the warmth of his happiness returning. He was going to have a son . . .
‘I name you Salim after the holy man who predicted your birth.’
Holding the squirming body of his new-born son in the crook of his left arm, with his right hand Akbar picked up a saucer of small gold coins and poured them gently over the baby’s head. Salim threshed about, flexing tiny fists, but though he screwed up his face he didn’t howl. Smiling with pride, Akbar lifted Salim high so all could see him. Then he placed him on a large green velvet cushion held by his elderly vizier Jauhar. It was the turn of the black-turbaned Shaikh Ahmad, head of the ulama, to speak. What did he really think about blessing the child of a Hindu mother? His face, bland above his bushy dark beard, gave nothing away. Whatever his inner feelings, he and his clique had lost the battle – defeated by the birth of this child who as yet knew nothing of the tensions of the world.
After thanking God for Salim’s birth, the priest said portentously: ‘We whom His Imperial Majesty have summoned here to Sikri hail the auspicious birth of this world-illuminating pearl of the mansion of dominion and fortune, this night-gleaming jewel of the casket of greatness and glory. Prince Salim, may God guide you and pour an ocean of divine bounty upon you.’
Later that night, Akbar slipped from the huge many-canopied brocade tent specially erected in Sikri for the feast celebrating his son’s birth. For a while he had joined in the slurred singing, circling arm in arm with Ahmed Khan and his other commanders in some semblance of the old dances of the Moghul homelands – not that many could remember the steps. But now there was something he felt he must do. Calling for his horse, he mounted and taking only a few of his guards, rode slowly through the warm night air, scented by the still-smoking dung fires over which the villagers of Sikri had cooked their evening meal, towards the nearby monastery where Hirabai was still lodged. Glancing up it seemed to him that the stars, so beloved by his own father Humayun, had never seemed so numerous or so lustrous. It was as if they had found a special radiance to shed upon the earth that now held his son – the son he must do everything to protect. Even now, at a time of so much happiness, he could not forget the Sufi’s words of caution . . .
‘It is the emperor!’ shouted one of his guards as the arched entrance of the monastery appeared before them. Orange-clad Rajput soldiers from Amber to whom Akbar had awarded the honour of protecting the Empress stood to attention and their captain stepped forward.
‘Welcome, Majesty.’
Akbar dismounted and tossing his reins to his qorchi walked through the gateway into a small, dimly lit courtyard. As the cry went up again, ‘It is the emperor!’ one of Hirabai’s Rajput maids appeared through the shadows carrying an oil lamp whose tiny flame flickered and danced.
‘Please take me to my wife.’
Hirabai was lying propped on blue cotton cushions on a low bed. Salim was feeding at her breast and Akbar saw a contentment in her face he had never witnessed before. It was so unexpected it made her seem almost a stranger. But as she looked at him, the glow faded. ‘Why have you come? You should be at the feast attending to your guests.’
‘I felt a sudden need to see my son . . . and my wife.’
Hirabai said nothing, but took Salim from her breast and handed him to her maid. The baby began to cry, angry at having his feeding so abruptly ended, but Hirabai signalled to the maid to take him away.
‘Hirabai – I have come here to make one last appeal to you. For the rest of our lives Salim will be a link of flesh and blood between us. Can’t we forget the past and begin again for him? Let all my sons be yours too so that in later life they can support and help one another as full brothers.’
‘I have done my duty. As I have already told you, I wish you only to leave me alone. You promised that if I bore you a son you would do so. Let other women father your sons.’
‘Salim’s position will be less secure if he has only half-brothers. They will feel less loyalty to him. Have you considered that? Don’t you owe it to your son to make his position as strong as possible?’
‘My son has Rajput blood in his veins. He will trample any rival into the dust.’ Hirabai raised her chin.
Frustration at such heedless, stubborn pride, such a narrow view of the world, filled Akbar. For a moment he wondered whether to tell her of the Sufi’s warnings of what might lie in the future, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. So be it, but he would not leave his son to be brought up by such a woman.
‘Very well, I will respect your wishes. But there is a price for what you ask. Though you may see Salim whenever you wish, I intend to place him in my mother’s care. Moghul princes are often reared by senior royal women rather than their birth mothers. She will appoint a milk-mother as is also the Moghul way. My son will be brought up as a Moghul prince, not a Rajput one.’
Hirabai stared at him. If he had anticipated grief, remonstrations, he was wrong. The only sign of agitation was a slight tautening of her jaw. ‘You are the emperor. Your word is law.’ Her tone was contemptuous, insolent even. He had come to her tonight to give her one final chance, but, as he had known in his heart, she had utterly closed her mind against him.
Chapter 10
A Wonder of the World
‘You have done me a great honour and given me a great responsibility, Majesty.’
‘I know you will acquit yourself well, Abul Fazl. I wish the chronicle of my reign to be a testament to future generations. You must record the truth – the bad as well as the good. Don’t seek merely to flatter me.’
‘I will write every word with a pen perfumed with sincerity.’
Akbar suppressed a smile as he looked at his newly appointed chief chronicler. Though he had other scribes, he had begun to feel the need for someone who would do more than just write down his words – someone he could trust to inform himself about and record all the important aspects of his reign, even when he himself was away. Abul Fazl was a bull-necked, bow-legged man a little younger than himself with a small but livid birthmark at the corner of his left eye. His father Shaikh Mubarak, a learned theologian, had brought the family to the Moghul court some years earlier. Abul Fazl’s skills both as a commander and as an analyst of court politics had already caught Akbar’s attention, but it was his vizier Jauhar who had recommended him for this appointment, observing to Akbar that ‘although vain and an outrageous flatterer, Abul Fazl is clever and loyal. He will glory at being at the centre of events and will perform the task more ably than a more modest or retiring man.’ Certainly the beaming smile on his clean-shaven face told Akbar how gratified he was by the award of such a position of trust.
‘You must take particular care in recording the reforms I intend to make to the empire’s administration. One of the chief purposes of the chronicles will be to guide my successors.’
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br /> ‘Of course, Majesty.’ Abul Fazl signalled with a richly beringed hand to an attendant who placed a carved mulberry wood writing slope before him and handed him paper, pen and ink.
‘Then let us begin.’ Akbar got up and paced his apartments. Through an arched opening he could see boys riding their camels along the sunlit banks of the Jumna and beyond them a group of his courtiers, one with a hawk on his wrist, going hunting. He wished he was with them, but business must come before pleasure.
‘I have already made some important decisions. First, I wish to fit all my officials into a single hierarchy. Every one of them, whether they are soldiers or not, will be designated as commanders of a certain number of troops. You look startled, Abul Fazl, but with such a large and disparate empire I must find ways to make my rule uniform and consistent. Even the head of the royal kitchens will be included – he will become a commander of six hundred. You, as my adviser and chronicler, will be a commander of four thousand.’
Abul Fazl permitted himself a satisfied smile and bent over his writing again as Akbar continued. ‘Next, certain lands within my empire will be designated crown property and my officials will collect the due taxes and remit them straight to my treasury. The rest of my territory will be divided into jagirs – fiefs – and given to my nobles and commanders to govern. They will be responsible for gathering the taxes and may keep a proportion in return for maintaining an agreed number of troops for the crown. In that way, should I need to go to war I will be able to gather a large and well-trained army quickly.’
‘Can the holders bequeath their jagirs to their sons, Majesty?’
‘No. When they die, the jagir will revert to me to be disposed of at my pleasure.’ Akbar paused. ‘By making every man of importance a servant of the empire and by being able to remove troublemakers from their jagirs and confiscate their property when they die, I can compel my nobles’ loyalty and prevent any of them from building a power base against me.’ He paused, and for a few moments the only sound was the scratching of Abul Fazl’s long, ivory-stemmed pen. ‘Is everything clear? Have you noted down everything I said?’
‘Yes, Majesty. I have written accurately and in sufficient detail for all who read my account to benefit from your great wisdom, unparalleled insight and organisational genius in bringing order to your new dominions.’
Why did Abul Fazl have to use quite so many words? Akbar wondered. He seemed to think that verbose and constant flattery was the way to Akbar’s favour. Perhaps it was the Persian way, though Bairam Khan had not been like that. The memory of his old mentor and his treatment of him was still painful, and Akbar determinedly pushed it out of his mind.
‘Let us go outside. We can talk further there.’ He led the way from his private apartments to a courtyard where his three sons were playing. Five-year-old Salim was riding in a small cart being pulled by Murad, just eleven months younger, and three-and-a-half-year-old Daniyal. They hadn’t noticed him yet, standing with Abul Fazl in the shadows beneath a neem tree, and went on with their game. Salim was growing fast. He had Hirabai’s narrow, slender build and the same thick dark hair and long-lashed eyes. Murad was nearly as tall but thicker set, more like Akbar himself, but with the tawny eyes of his Rajput mother, a princess of Jaisalmer. Little Daniyal, chubby with puppy fat and trying hard to keep up with Murad, as yet resembled neither Akbar nor his beautiful Persian mother.
Akbar watched with the satisfaction he always felt when he looked at them. Just as Shaikh Salim Chishti had predicted, he had three strong sons. ‘Look at them, Abul Fazl. What more could I have done to secure the succession than father three such healthy boys, and what better foundation could I have given my empire? God has been good to me.’
‘Yes, indeed, Majesty. He has poured his celestial light upon you.’
The cart had come to a halt on the other side of the courtyard and Murad was trying to climb in, no doubt demanding his turn. For a moment the memory of the Sufi’s warning disturbed Akbar’s content. He must pay close attention to the education of his sons and be alert for any signs of rivalry or jealousy, he thought, watching them intently now. But Salim was laughing as he yielded his place in the cart to Murad who, Akbar could see, looked all smiles. They were still so young . . . He was being foolish. It would be years before he need worry – if he ever had to. He was about to walk over to join them when his qorchi approached.
‘Majesty, the architects have arrived to discuss the plans for Sikri.’
‘Excellent. I will come at once. You too, Abul Fazl. I want you to know everything about this project. I am planning a new capital at Sikri to fulfil my promise to Shaikh Salim Chishti, the Sufi priest who predicted the birth of my sons.’
‘Your love of architecture is well known, Majesty. Your father’s tomb in Delhi is the finest building in all Hindustan.’
Abul Fazl was for once not exaggerating, Akbar thought as they returned to his apartments. Humayun’s octagonal sandstone and marble mausoleum was indeed magnificent. With its high double-skinned dome and elegant symmetry, it recalled Timur’s tomb in far-off Samarkand of which Akbar had seen drawings. It was fitting that his father should rest in such a place. Of course, he himself would probably never visit blue-domed Samarkand with its soaring Turquoise Gate. For him it would remain like a dream, or the setting of some wonderful fable – spectrally beautiful but unreal. He had been born in Hindustan – its dry red soil was in his veins and his destiny was here. The thought reminded him of something important.
‘You must set this down in the chronicle, Abul Fazl. Sikri will be entirely different from anything I – or my father or grandfather – have built in Hindustan. I have decided to build it in the style of my Hindu subjects. That’s why I’ve chosen Hindu architects. I have already spent many hours questioning them. They have ancient books to guide them in which everything is written – from the best way to make bricks, to siting buildings in such a way as to bring good fortune to those who live in them.’
The two architects were waiting in Akbar’s private audience chamber. One was tall and middle-aged, the other much younger and holding some long rolls of papers in his arms. They bowed as Akbar entered but he waved at them to stand upright and addressed the elder of the two. ‘Welcome, Tuhin Das. Let’s dispense with ceremony. I’m eager to see what you have to show me. What are those papers your son has there?’
‘Some preliminary drawings, Majesty.’
‘Spread them out so I can see them.’
‘Certainly. Mohan, do as His Majesty asks.’
Akbar waited as Tuhin Das’s son – a slight, narrow-visaged young man with the red Hindu tilak mark on his forehead – laid out the sheets one by one on an ebony table, weighting each down at the corners with a few pebbles which he fished from a little bag suspended from the belt round his brown woollen robe. His fingertips were stained with ink, and Akbar noticed that they were shaking a little with nerves. Even before Mohan had finished, Akbar was leaning eagerly over the table. The pieces of paper were covered with a grid of small squares on which different buildings were marked.
‘Majesty, may I suggest that we begin with this one?’ Tuhin Das indicated the largest of the drawings. ‘Here I have drawn the overall layout of the imperial complex. As you have already specified, it will be built up on the plateau with – as you can see – the main town below. It would be bounded by walls on three sides while on the northwestern side would be a great lake, not only to protect Sikri but to supply it with water.’ Akbar nodded assent.
‘I propose that the palaces, the mosque and all the other buildings of the court should be built along the line of this ridge I have sketched here, which runs from the southwest to the northeast. But please remember, Majesty, though we have tried our best to interpret your wishes these are preliminary ideas only.’
As the architect pointed at his drawing, Akbar noticed that he had lost the top joint of his right forefinger. Tuhin Das saw his glance. ‘An accident, Majesty. I was once a stonemason. A slab I was working
on slipped and crushed my finger. But it was good fortune not bad. Because of it I studied how to become a designer of buildings.’
‘Fate acts in mysterious ways. Explain this plan further to me.’
‘The palace complex would consist of a series of interconnecting courtyards. What we have brought here today are the plans for the main court buildings. If you like them, we can make wooden models to give a more detailed idea of their facades and layouts.’
‘What is this?’ Akbar pointed to a drawing of a large enclosed area.
‘The haram sara – large enough for five hundred ladies to live in comfort with their attendants, just as you requested. Most of them would have apartments in this palace, the panch mahal.’ Tuhin Das pointed to a sketch of a tall building five floors high. ‘I have modelled it on buildings I saw when I travelled through Persia. There they have clever ways of designing houses and palaces with special vents and tunnels to catch and channel any cooling breezes, and I have done the same here. I have also tried to create a place of beauty – see how each floor is supported by slender sandstone columns. On the very top we have a hawa mahal – a palace of the winds beneath a domed canopy where the ladies may sit.’
‘Good,’ said Akbar. His wives and concubines must live in the luxury to be expected of the Moghul court. Among the growing number of his concubines he still visited Mayala, but perhaps more out of affection than desire after all these years. Others roused greater physical passion now. A newly arrived Russian girl – the first he had ever seen, sent as a gift by a rich Moghul merchant who traded in far-off lands – with wide sapphire eyes, pale skin and hair the colour of sunlight was absorbing much of his attention.
‘Here are the drawings of the houses for your principal wives and for your mother and aunt, Majesty.’
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