Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Even after the Moghuls defeated the Lodi dynasty at Panipat, our people did not flinch from their warrior destiny. Babur derided them as infidels but they showed him how the Hindu warrior caste could fight. They attacked him at Khanua and nearly defeated him.’ Hirabai’s eyes glittered as if she too were a Rajput warrior bent on spilling blood.

  ‘You asked me whether you are a Moghul. You are – but only in part. Never forget that you are my son as well as Akbar’s and that royal Rajput blood – a thousand times more noble than Moghul blood – beats in your veins. The destiny that awaits you may not be the one you think . . . Just as your father can choose which son he names as his heir, you have a choice too . . .’

  Salim stood in silence, too confused to know what he thought. Where did the truth lie between his mother’s bewailing of the fate of her people and his tutors’ glorious tales of the Moghuls? And where did it leave him? Was his mother hinting that his father might not choose his eldest son as his heir at the same time as suggesting that Salim might have to choose between his Moghul ancestry and his Rajput inheritance? But the latter made no sense, especially when he thought about his father’s pronouncements that all were equal within the empire and about the many Rajputs who served Akbar.

  ‘But Mother, members of your own family, the royal house of Amber, are in the service of the Moghuls – like your brother Bhagwan Das and your nephew Man Singh. They wouldn’t join my father if they thought it dishonourable.’

  ‘People can always be bought . . . even Rajput nobility. I am ashamed of my brother and my nephew.’ Hirabai’s voice was cold and he could see that unwittingly he had offended her. ‘Leave me now, but think on my words.’

  She turned away from him, back to her shrine, and kneeling down again within the halo of light from a circle of wicks burning in diyas began once more to pray. Salim hesitated a moment, then made his way slowly to the stone staircase and down to the courtyard below, Hirabai’s contempt for his father and the Moghuls still ringing in his ears. He had hoped for some answers from her but instead his head only echoed with fresh questions about who he was and who he would become.

  Part IV

  Allah Akbar

  Chapter 15

  ‘You Will Be Emperor’

  ‘Where did you get those?’

  Salim glared at Murad. Two pigeons, purple throats crimson with blood, were hanging from his half-brother’s silver belt, but Salim’s eyes were fixed on the double bow he was holding in one hand and the gilded quiver of arrows in the other.

  Murad grinned. ‘I found them lying in the courtyard. I thought you didn’t want them . . .’

  ‘You mean you stole them.’

  Murad’s smile faded and he drew himself up. Though eleven months younger he was nearly two inches taller than Salim. ‘I’m not a thief. How was I supposed to know you still wanted them? You never come to the courtyard to join us in our exercises and trials of strength as you used to. You’re always skulking away somewhere. Daniyal and I hardly ever see you any more. Father says . . .’

  Salim took a step closer. ‘What does he say?’ His voice was low and his narrowed eyes were fixed on his brother’s face.

  Murad looked a little taken aback. ‘Nothing really . . . except that you spend too much time on your own. He was here just a while ago, watching me practise my archery. When I shot down the pigeons with this bow he said I was as skilful as he was at my age.’ He beamed with pride.

  ‘Give me back my bow and arrows.’

  ‘Why should I? You only want them now because I like them and can use them so well.’

  ‘I want them because they’re mine.’

  ‘Take them, then – if you can.’ Murad thrust out his square jaw.

  Salim felt a surge of anger, and needing no further encouragement launched himself at his half-brother. Though Murad was heavier, he was the quicker. Using his momentum he pushed Murad to the ground, then leaping on top straddled him, locking his thighs hard against Murad’s ribs. Murad tried to poke his fingers into his eyes but he jerked back just in time and then got a hand on either side of his brother’s face. Grabbing hold of Murad’s long black hair he yanked his head up then thumped it hard against the paving stones. There was a satisfying crack and as he pulled Murad’s head up again to repeat the process he saw a thin smear of dark red blood on the stones.

  ‘Highnesses, stop!’ Hearing agitated voices and feet running swiftly towards them, Salim crashed his brother’s head once more against the stones. Then he felt strong arms pulling him off his brother. Glancing up, he saw it was Murad’s tutor. The man carried him a few steps away then released him. Panting hard and wiping the sweat from his face, Salim had the satisfaction of seeing Murad still lying groaning on the ground. That would teach him to challenge his older brother.

  Daniyal had come running into the courtyard. His eyes in his round face looked startled but it seemed to Salim that his younger half-brother was looking at him with some admiration. At least he knew how to fight . . . But as he looked round at Murad, who was sitting up now and holding his bleeding head in his hands, some of his elation began to ebb to be replaced by shame that he had lost his temper so completely. If he was honest, it wasn’t the fact that Murad had taken his bow and arrows that had so enraged him, even though they had been a gift from Akbar. It was hurt that his father should criticise him to Murad – and jealousy that they could even have such a conversation.

  ‘What has been going on?’ Hearing his father’s deep voice, Salim looked round and his heart began to pound.

  ‘He called me a thief!’ Then he attacked me as if he wanted to kill me,’ said Murad, who was now on his feet. ‘All because I borrowed his bow and arrows.’

  ‘You stole them. Then you said if I wanted them back I must take them. But keep them if they are so important to you.’

  ‘You are brothers. Salim, you in particular as the eldest should know better. Such scuffling isn’t seemly.’ Akbar’s tone was severe. ‘You both deserve to be punished for brawling like urchins from the bazaar. This time I will overlook it, but do not let it happen again or you will not find me so lenient. As for this bow and these arrows which have caused so much trouble, let me see them.’

  Murad brought them over and Akbar inspected them carefully. ‘I recognise them now. These were my gift to you, Salim, weren’t they? As I told you, they were crafted by a Turkish master from the very finest materials.’

  ‘He’d just left them in the courtyard . . . he never used them . . . if it had rained they’d have been ruined.’ Murad’s tone was all self-righteousness.

  Salim looked stonily ahead. How could he defend himself when Murad’s accusation was true? He had been careless with Akbar’s gift.

  Akbar was looking at him, perplexed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like them. I will keep them for my own use.’

  Salim knew his father was waiting for him to say something, to offer some explanation. He wanted so badly to speak but somehow the words wouldn’t come. All he could manage was a faint shrug of his shoulders which he was sure looked like defiance rather than regret.

  A week later, Akbar still couldn’t shake off the sense of disquiet that had descended on him since the fight between Salim and Murad. The words spoken by the loser at the end of a game of chess – shah mat, ‘the king is at a loss’ – kept returning to his mind. That was how he had felt as he confronted Salim and he wasn’t used to it. On the battlefield he always knew what to do. And governing his empire he felt the same certainty. His borders were secure, the rule of law prevailed and he was winning the loyalty of his subjects, high and low. So why didn’t he have the same sure touch in his private life?

  ‘Do not take the love of your sons for you or for each other for granted . . .’ had been Shaikh Salim Chishti’s parting words to him all those years ago. In the euphoria of fathering three healthy sons he had pushed the Sufi’s warning from his mind. On the rare occasions he recalled it, he had comfortably dismissed it as prudent advice to any father but
irrelevant to him. Now, though, the recollection of those words was making him increasingly uneasy. Were he and Salim, his eldest son, growing apart? If the bonds between them were indeed weakening, to what might it lead as Salim grew older, and what could he do to prevent it?

  Several times he had felt tempted to confide his concerns to his mother and his aunt, but ever since their disagreement with him about the management of his haram he had felt as inhibited in discussing personal or family matters with them as Salim seemed to be in speaking to him. Instead his thoughts turned to Abul Fazl. Instinct told him that his chronicler would understand, and might even have some advice to offer . . .

  Finally, one evening he summoned Abul Fazl to join him where he sat alone in a secluded courtyard lit by candles.

  ‘I have brought my ledger and my pen and ink, Majesty. Did you wish to dictate?’

  ‘No . . . I just want to talk. You have sons, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty, two boys of ten and twelve.’ Abul Fazl looked surprised.

  ‘When you praise them or give them presents, how do they react?’

  Abul Fazl shrugged. ‘As any boy would, Majesty. They are delighted and excited.’

  ‘Like my youngest sons Murad and Daniyal . . .’

  ‘And Prince Salim, Majesty? Surely he is the same?’ Abul Fazl probed gently.

  ‘No, he isn’t. At least not with me . . . It hurts me to say this – indeed I find it hard to admit it to myself – but it’s as if an invisible wall is growing up between us. Before I went to Bengal Salim was as open as either of my other sons and even more high-spirited. Now he seems quiet . . . withdrawn . . . and he avoids my company.’

  ‘What does his tutor say?’

  ‘That he excels in everything. He can read Persian and Turki fluently. He fights well with a sword, can fire a musket and rides his pony hard playing polo. I know this is true because I have observed it myself. But while my other sons can’t wait to brag to me about their doings, Salim rarely seeks me out. I even took him tiger hunting on his own two weeks ago. When we flushed a great beast from its hiding place, I let him fire the musket. He yelled with excitement as the musket ball lodged in the animal’s throat but later as we rode home he said almost nothing.’

  ‘He is young, Majesty, barely eleven. If you are patient all will come right.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘All fathers worry about their children.’

  ‘But all fathers are not emperors. Though I am young and strong and confident that God will grant me many more years, I must consider which of my sons I wish to succeed me. They are just boys, it is true, but I cannot forget that my grandfather was a king at only twelve years old. In the early years of his reign it was his own courage and resolution – fed by the knowledge that he had been brought up to rule – that helped him evade the assassin’s blade and outwit rivals scheming for his throne. Whichever of my sons is to be the next Moghul emperor must feel that same sense of destiny, of duty to the dynasty. It cannot begin too early. In my heart I wish my heir to be my first-born. But if Salim is turning against me or lacks the hunger and the will to lead, what then?’

  Abul Fazl was for once silent, and the two men sat wrapped in their own thoughts as one by one the candles began to gutter. Akbar signalled to his attendants not to renew them. Tonight he preferred the darkness to the light.

  His tutors would be anxious for his safety if they discovered what he had done but Salim didn’t care. Since that strange evening with his mother he had felt even more restless and unsettled than before. For as long as he could remember, he had known that Hirabai did not love his father. As he had grown up, he had begun to understand that their marriage had been only a political alliance. But never before had he realised the depth of his mother’s scorn – hatred even – for Akbar and the Moghuls. Bats swooped around Salim as he ran but he knew every inch of this path, even in the purpling dusk.

  He had slipped out of the palace complex through the Agra gate, mingling with the merchants and tradesmen returning homeward as the sun had begun to slide beneath the horizon. Instead of following the crowds down to the plain where light from hundreds of dung fires was already pricking the darkness, Salim branched off down a narrow track skirting the edge of the escarpment. Another ten minutes of hard running and he thought he could see the outline of a low house. Salim stopped, his blood pounding in his ears and his breathing so loud that he was sure the old woman and the girl he could see squatting by a small fire outside the house must be able to hear him. But they went on with their work – the girl shaping dough on a flat stone and then handing the thin circles to her companion who was cooking them on a metal rack over the fire, flipping them with a piece of wood.

  Salim heard the old woman exclaim in dismay as one piece fell into the fire. As he came nearer he smelled the charred bread. Somehow the very ordinariness of the scene gave him courage. He had made his decision to come here tonight without any forethought – sparked by the sight of his father walking across the sunlit haram courtyard with Murad and Daniyal laughing and talking beside him. Suddenly his sense of being an outsider had been so strong that something had seemed to explode within him, questioning the point of his existence. It was followed almost instinctively by the inspiration that the one person who might be able to answer his questions was the Sufi mystic who had predicted his birth and in whose honour Fatehpur Sikri had been built. Salim had never seen the Sufi for himself. All he knew was that he was very old and completely blind and that he had refused Akbar’s offer to house him within the palace complex, preferring to remain in his simple house beyond the walls.

  Salim’s hesitant steps had brought him to the edge of the rim of light thrown out by the fire. The girl saw him first and stood up. Then the old woman followed the girl’s gaze and looked up at him. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To see Shaikh Salim Chishti.’

  ‘My brother is very frail – too frail to be troubled by visitors who come without warning at night.’

  ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t think . . .’ Salim stepped nearer. The gems round his neck and on his fingers flashed in the firelight, which also picked out the golden clasps on his green silk tunic. The old woman was studying him carefully from his leather boots – scuffed by running but richly embroidered – to the pearls hanging from his ear lobes. At last she rose.

  ‘Halima, finish cooking the bread.’ Then she gestured to Salim to follow her inside.

  The lintel of the house was so low that, young as he was, Salim had to duck beneath it. In the faint light of two oil lamps he saw a figure sitting against the far wall. It looked bulky but as his eyes adjusted Salim saw that the Sufi was half cocooned in a woollen blanket. Far from being large, he looked as delicate as the Chinese porcelain the merchants brought carefully wrapped in layers of straw.

  ‘Brother, you have a visitor. A royal prince, by his dress.’ The old woman’s voice, tender and soft, was quite different from the brusque tone in which she had spoken to Salim. ‘Do you have the strength to talk to him?’

  The old man nodded. ‘He is welcome. Tell him to sit near me.’

  The woman signalled to Salim to seat himself on the woven jute mat that covered the floor of beaten earth, then went back outside.

  ‘I wondered whether one day you would come to see me, Salim. You are sitting exactly where your father did when he too visited me.’

  ‘How did you know who I was? It might have been one of my half-brothers, Daniyal or Murad . . .’

  ‘God has been good to me. Even though the external world is hidden from me, he reveals many things to me in my heart. I knew it could only be you because you are the only one of Akbar’s sons who needs my help at present.’

  Suddenly tears were pricking Salim’s eyelids – tears not of sorrow but of relief that here was someone who would listen and understand.

  ‘Tell me what is troubling you,’ the Sufi said gently.

  ‘I don’t understand who I am – what the purpose of my life will be
. I want my father to be proud of me but I don’t know what he expects of me, what he wants me to be . . . I am his eldest son. I should be the next emperor but perhaps that is not what he wants. What if he prefers one of my half-brothers to me? And even if I did become emperor, my mother would hate me for it. She says the Moghuls are barbarians who do not belong here. She . . .’

  Shaikh Salim Chishti leaned forward from his shroud of blankets and took Salim’s face between his dry old hands. ‘No need for words. I understand what you are feeling – your doubts and fears. You look for love yet fear that by loving one parent you betray the other . . . You are envious of your half-brothers and fear they may eclipse you in your father’s eyes . . . that is why you no longer seek them out. You wonder whether you were born to rule . . . I tell you this, Prince Salim: the path of the Moghuls has been hard and bloody but they have achieved greatness and there is more to come. You will be a part of that greatness – you will be emperor . . .’

  The Sufi paused and with his fingertips gently probed the contours of Salim’s face as if trying to find by his touch what his eyes could no longer tell him. ‘You have your father’s determination and strength but not yet his experience and confidence. Observe him, watch how he governs. That is the way to prepare yourself and to win his approval. But just as I once warned him, so I must warn you. Watch those around you. Be careful whom you confide in and take nothing on trust, even from those bound to you by blood – your half-brothers or even the sons you will have. I do not mean that you will always be surrounded by traitors, but you must be aware that treachery is quick to breed. Ambition is double-edged. It drives men to achieve great things but can also poison their souls – yours as much as any other man’s. Be on your guard both against those around you and against your own passions and weaknesses. If you do, then you will achieve the things you yearn for.’ The Sufi released him and leaned back again.