Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘No. You will not. You will tell the khawajasara and the captain of the guard and the chief among that army of eunuchs you employ here that I, the mother of the emperor, will give the orders within the haram. I and your aunt will come and go as we please without let or hindrance.’ Hamida released him. ‘And when you go on campaign or on an imperial progress, we will accompany you if we wish to, properly concealed from impertinent or prying eyes, of course. And we will listen to council meetings as has always been our custom from behind the protection of the jali screens . . . and later give you any advice we see fit.’

  Hamida paused and gave him a searching look. ‘You have fallen in love with your power and magnificence – you think too much of the image you present to the world. Success has come easily to you – far more easily than to either your grandfather or your father. Don’t let its dazzle blind you to the feelings of those close to you, whether female or male, and to the respect that is due to them as individuals, not just as elements in your hierarchy of empire . . . to do otherwise will be your loss as a man and eventually as an emperor.’

  ‘You judge me too harshly. I do respect you, Mother – and you too, Aunt. I know without your help I might never have been emperor and I am grateful.’

  ‘Then prove it by your behavior, not only to us but to others close to you, like your sons. You were unavoidably absent from them for many months while you were away fighting. Now you have returned you should be spending more time with them, getting to know them better rather than leaving them so much to the care of their tutors.’

  Akbar nodded as if accepting her words, but inside he felt resentment stir. He needed no advice on how to govern or how to behave, and even less on how to treat his sons.

  ‘Majesty, the Christian priests you summoned here from Goa have arrived.’

  ‘Thank you, Jauhar, I will come shortly.’ Akbar turned to Abul Fazl, to whom he had been dictating an account of some new reforms to the method of tax-gathering within his empire. ‘We will continue later. I want the chronicle to be as detailed as possible.’

  ‘Indeed, Majesty. Those who come after you can learn many lessons from your manifest glorious success in every aspect of the administration of your expanding empire.’

  Akbar allowed himself a quick smile. Over the years since he had appointed Abul Fazl his chronicler, he had grown used to his sometimes overblown and florid language and to his meticulous recording of every aspect of court life. When, six weeks ago, he had been gashed in the groin by the antlers of a stag while out hunting, Abul Fazl had recorded proudly that the application of a healing ointment was left ‘to the writer of this book of fortune’. But he had come to realise that his chronicler was no fool. Even if Abul Fazl wrapped his advice in formulaic high-flown compliments, unlike many of his other courtiers he didn’t just say what he thought the emperor wanted to hear but spoke with common sense and objectivity, and Akbar had begun consulting him more and more.

  ‘Come with me. I want you to see these strange creatures. I hear that some of them shave their skulls almost bald, leaving just a thin circle of hair.’

  ‘I will be interested to observe them. According to what I’ve heard, their own people treat them with great reverence and indeed seem almost afraid of them. If I might ask, why did you invite them to your court, Majesty?’

  ‘I am curious about their religion. Unlike the faith of my Hindu subjects, of which I now understand a little, I know almost nothing of their god, except that they believe he was once a man who after being killed came back to life.’

  ‘They have only one god then, like us?’

  ‘So it would seem, except that – as I understand – they believe this god has three incarnations – they call them the father, the son and the holy ghost. Perhaps they resemble the Hindu trinity of Vishnu, Shiva and Brahma.’

  Twenty minutes later, diamonds flashing in his turban, Akbar took his place on the throne placed in the balustraded, pulpit-like space at the intersection of the four slender, diagonal walkways supported by the richly-carved central column in his diwan-i-khas. Assembled below were the members of his council. He noticed Salim standing towards the back. It was good that the boy was here. He had probably never seen Europeans before.

  ‘Bring in the visitors,’ Akbar ordered the qorchi standing at his side. In a few moments, to the booming of drums from a musicians’ gallery, the youth ushered the priests through a doorway that gave on to one of the balconies and out on to one of the walkways leading to where Akbar was sitting. When the two men, dark robes almost touching the floor, had advanced to within a dozen feet of Akbar, the squire signalled them to halt. Akbar saw that one man was small and sturdily built while the other was taller and paler, the skin of his bald head much freckled by the sun.

  Akbar motioned the interpreter standing behind his throne to step closer. ‘Tell them they are welcome at my court.’ However, instead of waiting for the interpreter, the smaller of the two priests addressed Akbar directly in perfect court Persian.

  ‘You are gracious to invite us to Fatehpur Sikri. We are Jesuit priests. My name is Father Francisco Henriquez. I am a Persian by birth and was once a follower of Islam, though now I am a Christian. My companion is Father Antonio Monserrate.’

  ‘In your reply to my letter of invitation, you spoke of truths you wished to reveal to me. What are they?’

  Father Francisco looked grave. ‘They would take many hours to explain, Majesty, and you would run out of patience. But we have brought you a gift – our Christian gospels written in Latin, the language of our church. We know that you have many scholars at your court, among whom will be those able to translate them for you. Perhaps when you have had a chance to read what is written in our gospels we could talk again.’

  They were well informed in some respects, Akbar thought. It was true that he employed learned men – some to translate the chronicles recounting the deeds of his Timurid ancestors from Turki into Persian, others to translate Hindu volumes from their original Sanskrit. However, what the visiting priests clearly didn’t know was that he himself still couldn’t read. Ahmed Khan had tried to teach him during the long, rain-drenched hours sailing down the Jumna and the Ganges to fight Shah Daud, and in the year since his return Akbar had tried again, but the script still danced before his eyes. Yet frustrating as he found his failure, it had only fed his passion for books and the wisdom they contained. He always had a scholar on hand to read to him and was assembling a great library to rival any of the collections once held by his ancestors in far-off Samarkand and Herat.

  ‘I will have your gift translated, and as soon as the first pages are ready we will talk again. I trust you will remain guests at my court until at least that time,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘We would be honoured, Majesty. We intend to spare no effort to shed the glorious light of our Saviour upon you.’ As he spoke these words, Father Francisco’s dark eyes gleamed and his whole face seemed possessed by a deep fervour. It would be interesting to debate religion with a man who had once followed the path of Islam but turned from it, Akbar reflected as the two priests were led away, and also to discover what these so-called gospels had to say. Father Francisco had made them sound complex and mysterious. Would they really reveal new truths? And who was this ‘Saviour’? Was he another incarnation, like the father or the son or that spirit they called the ‘holy ghost’? He felt impatient to know.

  He was also curious to know what Salim had made of the new arrivals. He ordered an attendant to ask the prince to join him in his private apartments, and half an hour later he was looking down at his young son. ‘I saw you watching the Christian priests. What did you think of them?’

  ‘They looked strange.’

  ‘In what way? Their clothes?’

  ‘Yes, but more than that . . . there was something about their faces . . . almost as if they were hungry for something.’

  ‘In a way they are. They hope to make Christians of us.’

  ‘I heard one of our m
ullahs calling them foreign infidels and saying that you should never have invited them.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Salim looked startled. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea to find out as much as possible about other people’s beliefs? After all, how can you show people they are wrong if you don’t know what they think?’

  This time Salim said nothing at all, but stared awkwardly at the ground.

  ‘A strong, confident emperor doesn’t need to fear those who hold different views, does he? Think about it, Salim. Don’t your own studies make you curious to explore beyond the world you know?’

  Salim looked towards the door, obviously anxious for this interview to end, and Akbar felt a surge of exasperation. He had expected more of his eldest son. Admittedly, Salim was young, but surely when he’d been that age he’d have had more to say – intelligent questions to ask. ‘You must have some opinion,’ he persisted. ‘After all, why did you come to see the priests? I didn’t see your brothers there, only you.’

  ‘I wanted to see what Christian priests look like . . . I’ve heard all kinds of stories about them, and one of my tutors gave me this letter from a man who had met a priest in Delhi. It describes how the Christians worship a man nailed to a wooden cross.’ Salim reached inside his orange tunic and took out a piece of folded paper. ‘There’s a drawing of the cross, but look what the letter says, Father – especially the last lines, about how the Christians pray.’

  Akbar stared at the letter in his son’s outstretched hand. Salim must know that he couldn’t read . . . Slowly he took the piece of paper and unfolded it. At the top was a sketch of a skeletally thin man nailed to a cross, face creased in agony and head lolling. Beneath the drawing were some densely written lines that of course meant nothing to him. ‘I will keep this and look at it later,’ Akbar said, unable to help the sharp edge to his voice. ‘Leave me now.’

  Had his son intended to discomfit him? Akbar wondered, pacing his apartments after Salim had gone. Surely not. Why should he? But then the image of Hirabai’s proud, unyielding face came into his mind. What if she was encouraging Salim to despise him, just as she did? He knew from questioning the boy’s tutor that Salim was spending more and more time with his mother in her silent sandstone palace in the haram complex. She never saw her brother Bhagwan Das or her nephew Man Singh when they came to court, never held entertainments or gave parties, but – or so he had been told – kept herself aloof from the haram, spending her time reading, sewing with her Rajput waiting women and worshipping her gods. Every month at the time of the full moon, she climbed to the pavilion on the roof of her palace to gaze into the heavens and pray.

  Perhaps it was simply her self-imposed isolation from him that was affecting Salim, causing the boy to start to behave towards his father as she did? Salim used to be so free and open, but not any more. Now that Akbar thought about it, this wasn’t the first time he’d noticed how awkward and tongue-tied his eldest son had become in his presence. His jaw hardened. Hirabai could live as she chose but he would not allow her to influence their son. Though he wouldn’t wish to prevent Salim from seeing his haughty mother, perhaps he should ensure the visits were short and the pair were not left unattended.

  Chapter 14

  Sun Among Women

  Life was good. Akbar lay, eyes closed, feeling the air stir pleasantly around his naked body as a silk punkah swung rhythmically back and forth above him. He could hear the sound of water trickling down the tattis, the screens filled with the roots of scented kass grass that in summer were placed over the arched windows to cool the hot dry desert air blowing through them.

  He had much enjoyed the past hours spent in the arms of a dancing girl from Delhi whose long, jasmine-scented hair fell to the curve of her buttocks. Although he was in his mid-thirties he congratulated himself he still had the vigour of any young blood. He certainly had no need of the hakims’ aphrodisiac potions like ‘the Making of the Horse’ – a dark green foul-smelling concoction that supposedly gave a jaded man the sexual energy of a stallion and according to haram gossip was favoured by some of the more elderly members of his court. Nevertheless, he liked to explore new paths to pleasure. Sometimes he ordered one of his concubines to read to him from the centuries-old Hindu Kama Sutra, marvelling that there could be so many ways of making love. He smiled as he remembered the boy he had been with Mayala all those years ago. He would never have imagined then that he would acquire such a vast haram.

  But at the thought, some of his contentment and post-coital languor ebbed. Soon he must rise and go to the diwan-i-khas for a meeting with members of the ulama. Jauhar had warned him what they wanted – to object to his intention of taking further wives because, having recently wed the daughter of an important vassal from the south, he already had four, the maximum permitted by Sunni Islam. Akbar sat up. He wouldn’t tolerate any interference. Dynastic marriages were the cornerstone of his policy for pacifying and extending his empire and it was working. He would take a hundred wives, two hundred, if it would help secure his empire, whether further Rajput princesses or women from the old Moghul clans or Hindustan’s Muslim nobility, whether plain or beautiful.

  Of course, it had been very different for his father. Humayun had found in one woman – Hamida – the expression of his heart and soul. Sometimes he wished he himself could feel the same intense love for one woman but it had never happened and perhaps never would. At least it made it easier for him to pursue his policy of strategic alliances and left him free to enjoy an infinite variety of sexual partners. He now had over three hundred concubines. Most men would envy him, he reflected, pushing thoughts of the sour-faced ulama from his mind as he recalled once more the dancing girl, supple body gleaming with perfumed oil.

  Two hours later, in robes of emerald silk embroidered with peacocks and with a jewelled ceremonial dagger tucked into his bright yellow sash, Akbar took his place on his throne on the circular platform atop the tall carved pillar in the diwan-i-khas, Abul Fazl and the now stooped figure of his vizier Jauhar behind him. On one of the balconies stood the members of his ulama. Shaikh Ahmad was standing slightly to the fore, obviously expecting to be invited to advance along the narrow bridge to the platform. Akbar gestured to him to remain where he was.

  ‘Well, Shaikh Ahmad. What do you wish to say to me?’

  The shaikh touched his hand to his breast but the small brown eyes he fixed on Akbar were far from humble. ‘Majesty, the time has come for plain speaking. Your intention to take further wives is an affront to God.’

  Akbar leaned forward. ‘Be careful what you say.’

  ‘You are defying what is written in the Koran. I have spoken to you about this many times in private but you have chosen not to listen, forcing me to protest in public. If you still will not heed me, I will preach my message from the pulpit of the great mosque at Friday prayers.’ The shaikh’s face was flushed and he seemed to interpret Akbar’s silence as encouraging. Drawing up his portly body and with a triumphant glance over his shoulder at his colleagues, he continued, ‘The Koran permits a man only four marriages – nikah marriages with women of the Muslim faith. Yet I hear that you plan to take many more – some not even Muslims. If you do not draw back, God will punish you and our empire.’

  ‘I already have two Hindu wives, as you very well know. Each has borne me a son. Are you suggesting I renounce them?’

  The shaikh thrust out his chin. ‘Let them be concubines, Majesty. Your royal sons will still enjoy the status of royal princes. Many princes have been born to concubines . . . your own grandfather’s brother, for example . . .’

  Akbar looked at the mullah, wondering how it would feel to take his sword and slice through that fleshy neck. The thought came that even after being severed, that pompous, self-righteous head would probably still keep talking.

  ‘Shaikh Ahmad, I have done you the courtesy of listening to you. Now listen to me. I am the emperor. I alone will decide what is be
st for my empire and for my people. I will not tolerate your meddling.’

  The mullah flushed but said nothing. Akbar was about to dismiss the ulama when Abul Fazl’s father Shaikh Mubarak stepped forward. Akbar hadn’t noticed him till now.

  ‘Majesty, if I might be permitted to speak, I might be able to propose a solution.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Like Shaikh Ahmad, I am a Sunni Muslim, but I have spent some years studying the ways of our Shia brothers. I have come to see that they – like us – are faithful followers of the Prophet Muhammad and that we should not allow doctrinal differences to make us enemies.’

  ‘You speak wisely, but why is this relevant to what you have just heard?’

  ‘It could not be more relevant, Majesty. The Shias believe that the Koran permits another, lesser form of marriage – the muta. A man may contract a muta marriage with any number of women, whatever their religion, and with no need for any formal ceremony . . .’

  ‘That is heresy . . . no true believer would follow such a path,’ interrupted Shaikh Ahmad, shaking his head angrily.

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t heresy. A particular verse of the Koran – I will show it to you – appears to sanction these muta marriages. They are common in Persia . . .’

  ‘Yes, and the corrupt practices of that sacrilegious land are spreading to our own. I have heard that the owners of our caravanserais now offer muta wives to merchants for the night as an inducement to stay there. It is no more than an excuse for prostitution!’

  Shaikh Ahmad continued to rage on but Akbar was no longer listening. Shaikh Mubarak’s ideas were interesting and he would like to know more. If the Koran indeed appeared to allow a man many wives, it would be useful in countering the views of the orthodox members of the ulama – not that he would have allowed them to frustrate his plans. But Mubarak’s words had struck a deeper chord within him. Shias, Sunnis, Hindus, Christians – weren’t they all seeking the same fundamental truths – certainties in an uncertain world? The rituals they enacted, the rules they followed, were all man-made. Strip all this away and what was left but man’s simple quest to communicate with his god and live the best life he could?