‘You have told me your religion allows a man only one wife, but I have heard that this King of England, Henry, took six wives. How? Are there different rules for a king in your country?’
‘No, Majesty. Our queen’s mother was found guilty of adultery – it was even said she was a witch – and executed. The king married yet again but his third queen died when her son was not two weeks old. He divorced his fourth wife – a foreign princess – because she did not please his eye. His fifth wife – young and beautiful but sadly not virtuous – also fell into the snare of adultery and was beheaded on his orders. But the king’s sixth and final wife, a modest matron, outlived him.’
‘Your king might have saved himself some trouble had he followed our path and taken more than one wife at a time. And it seems he did not guard his haram well . . .’ A ripple of laughter went around the hall of worship, but neither the Englishman nor the Jesuits were smiling as the Turk translated Akbar’s words.
‘Tell me about your queen, John Newberry. Are the men of your country content to be ruled by a woman?’
‘She is loved by our people because she protects us from the Catholic menace and keeps us free.’
‘Has she no husband?’
‘She glories in being a virgin. Many foreign princes have wooed her but she says England is her bridegroom.’
‘Is she beautiful?’
‘She is more than beautiful – she is glorious.’
Salim saw Father Antonio whispering urgently into Father Francisco’s ear and after a few moments the latter stepped forward. ‘If I might speak, Majesty,’ he said in his smooth court Persian. ‘You are in danger of being misled by this merchant. This queen of England was born of a sinful union between a king inflamed by lust and a proven whore. This Elizabeth is not the legitimate ruler of her country – which by rights should be ruled by the Catholic King of Spain – but a bastard heretic leading her country to eternal damnation. Our master the Pope in Rome has cast her out and she will burn for ever.’
The Turk was translating all this for Newberry, whose already crimson countenance was darkening as he took in what the priest had said, but Salim saw that Akbar was starting to look bored. His father enjoyed philosophical debate rather than the trading of insults, and Salim was not surprised when he rose abruptly.
‘Enough. We will resume our enquiries another day,’ he said, and swept from the chamber.
It was a perfect autumn day. Sunlight filtered through the dense foliage of the forest as the beaters advanced, banging their gongs and shouting to drive the game ahead of them. Salim enjoyed the rhythmic motion as the elephant bearing him and his three attendants plodded on. Some ten yards ahead he could see his father’s elephant, Lakna, left hind leg scored by the claws of a male tiger many years earlier. Lakna was Akbar’s favourite hunting elephant. He had captured him himself, while still a youth, from a herd of wild elephants, then tamed him.
Salim had watched his father fearlessly break other elephants. It was a dangerous business requiring two men, each perched on a tame elephant on either side of the wild beast. Once in position, their task was to fling a noose of stout rope round the neck of the wild elephant and secure it to the neck of their own mount. Then, by progressively tightening the noose, they were able gradually to calm the beast and bring it under control. Salim had seen many good men killed during the process. It was easy to fall off and what chance did a man have beneath the feet of an enraged elephant? Several times he had heard the sickening squelch of a body trampled beneath a heavy grey foot. Even after the initial subduing, months of hard work remained, training the beast to advance to order by throwing fodder down on the ground before it. But Lakna had served Akbar well, and amply repaid the time he had spent.
The temperature was rising and a bead of salty sweat ran into the corner of Salim’s mouth. He flicked it away with the tip of his tongue. Soon the circle of beaters, who had been closing in since dawn, would be tight enough and the hunt would begin. Glancing over his shoulder he saw his qorchi was following close behind on a horse and leading his own black stallion in case he should wish to exchange the elephant for a faster mount. His heart was thudding with the excitement he always felt in the hunt. He was a good marksman – equally accurate with musket or arrow – and perhaps today he would impress his father. He would like to have been riding with him on Lakna in the golden howdah festooned with green ribbons, but as usual the bulky figure of Abul Fazl was by Akbar’s side.
The brief shadow that fell on Salim’s spirits as he watched his father’s elephant advance into a particularly thickly wooded part of the forest passed quickly. He must continue to do as Shaikh Salim Chishti had told him – wait and watch and learn and all would come right. And it was good that his father had invited him on the hunt. Hearing a sudden shouting from up ahead, Salim reached over his shoulder to check that his quiver and bow were in place and then ran his hand over the smooth steel barrel of his musket, a beautiful weapon inlaid with triangles of mother-of-pearl. Yes, he was ready.
But then he realised that the shouts were more than a cry for the hunt to begin and were growing louder. Among them he could make out the words, ‘His Majesty is ill! Fetch the hakims!’ There was a sudden thudding of hooves and two of Akbar’s mounted bodyguard burst through the foliage ahead of him and galloped off towards the back of the line where the court hakims who always accompanied the hunt were travelling in their bullock cart.
‘What is it? What’s happened to my father?’ Salim shouted but in the confusion no one was attending to him. Heart pounding, he climbed over the edge of his howdah and lowered himself on two gilded straps until he was close enough to the ground to jump lightly down. Dodging more riders and a group of beaters, metal gongs now silent in their hands, Salim ran forward. His father’s elephant Lakna was on its knees and beside the great grey shape Salim saw a group of men clustered around a supine figure. Forcing his way through, Salim saw Akbar lying on his back, body arching as spasms rocked it. As Salim stared, he found himself repeating over and over, ‘Please God, not yet.’ His ambitions and his fears for the future no longer seemed to matter.
Akbar was thrashing more wildly, and red blood mingling with a dribble of spittle oozing from his mouth showed that he had bitten his tongue. Salim watched helplessly. In his mind’s eye he already saw himself standing beside Murad and Daniyal at their father’s funeral. He heard Hamida’s and Gulbadan’s wails of grief and saw the smile curving his mother’s lips at the knowledge that the man she regarded as the enemy of her people was dead.
Abul Fazl was loosening the turquoise clasps of his father’s tunic, fingers trembling. ‘Stand back, all of you, give His Majesty some air . . .’ he was saying. At that moment one of the bodyguards returned, a white-robed, white-turbaned hakim mounted behind him. The crowd parted to let the doctor through. He was a young, sharp-featured man whose intelligent brown eyes seemed to take in the situation at once.
Dropping to his knees beside Akbar he seized his arms and held them steady. ‘You!’ he shouted without ceremony to Abul Fazl. ‘Hold His Majesty’s legs to help calm him. And you there,’ he nodded at another courtier, ‘fold a clean piece of linen – handkerchief, face cloth, whatever comes to hand – and ram it hard between His Majesty’s jaws or he may bite through his tongue.’
‘Hakim, what can I do for my father?’ Salim asked.
The doctor glanced round. ‘Nothing,’ he said tersely and turned back to his patient. Salim hesitated a moment, then getting to his feet pushed his way through the onlookers. If he couldn’t help he would rather not watch.
The sunlight that had seemed so full of promise for a good day’s sport barely half an hour ago as it shafted through the canopy of leaves was now lighting the forest floor with a harsh, metallic brightness. Salim wandered away through a patch of low, scrubby bushes, neither noticing nor caring where his feet were taking him. Reaching a clearing he paused, and more by instinct than anything else suddenly became aware of a pair of bright eyes
watching him through some branches. It was a young deer, the velvet mantling on its antlers the very palest brown. Slowly Salim reached behind him for his bow but then stopped. What was the point? There was enough death in the world.
Almost at once the deer bounded away. Salim listened to the sounds of the frightened animal crashing through the scrub and then turned to retrace his own steps. Whatever was happening to his father, he must face up to it and any implications it had for him. He couldn’t hide in the forest like a dumb beast and anyway in a few moments he would be missed – imperial princes couldn’t wander off on their own unnoticed. But he dreaded what he would see as he emerged once more into the open. The hakim was standing up now with a crowd gathered around him, listening to what he had to say. But where was Akbar? Salim broke into a run.
As he drew closer, staring around him in panic, he saw his father sitting propped against a tree trunk, Abul Fazl holding a flask of water to his lips. His bodyguards had formed a protective circle around them but they parted as Salim ran up. ‘Father . . .’ He was half-sobbing with relief to see Akbar, a little paler than usual and long dark hair dishevelled, but otherwise much as usual. The bright eyes that he now turned on his son had lost none of their disconcerting penetration.
‘There is no need for concern. I have had a vision – a direct communication with God. I felt my whole body shaking with joy, and God revealed to me what I must do. We are abandoning the hunt and returning at once to Fatehpur Sikri, where I have an announcement to make to my people. Go now, and let me rest.’
Salim turned away, feeling that his father had somehow rebuffed him. If his father had received some divine revelation why wouldn’t he share it with him? Did he think he was not to be trusted? Glancing round, he saw the man whom just a little while ago he had thought close to death whispering with Abul Fazl and realised that all the anxiety he had felt had turned to nothing more noble than resentment. He was angry with himself, but angrier still with Akbar.
‘I have summoned you here to the great mosque in Fatehpur Sikri to hear an important pronouncement.’
Dressed in cloth of gold and with three nodding white egrets feathers secured to his turban by a ruby clasp, Akbar gazed around at the assembled mullahs, courtiers and commanders. Salim, standing amongst them, glanced up at the small women’s gallery concealed from public view by a carved jali where he knew that Hamida and Gulbadan were watching and listening. Did they have any idea what Akbar was going to say? He didn’t. For the past three days since Akbar had returned from his hunting expedition the court had been awash with rumours. Akbar had shut himself away in his private quarters, seeing only Abul Fazl and, on two occasions, Shaikh Mubarak. Some even claimed that Akbar was about to declare himself a Christian.
‘Several days ago, in his infinite goodness God spoke to me and revealed his heart. He said that he had chosen me because, like other prophets before me, I cannot read and my mind therefore remains open to hearing his voice in all its strength and purity. He told me that a true ruler must not leave the conduct of divine worship to others but take this great responsibility upon their own shoulders. Today is Friday, our day of prayer. In past times I would have asked one of our learned mullahs to mount the pulpit to lead us in our worship and to recite the khutba. But because of what God is asking of me, I must fulfil that task in front of you all.’
To gasps of surprise Akbar turned and climbed the steep carved rosewood stairs leading up to the marble pulpit. Then in his deep, resonating voice he began to recite, his voice building to a climax as the final words rang out, ‘Blessed be His Majesty! Allah Akbar!’
Salim’s head jerked back with surprise. Allah Akbar meant ‘God is great,’ but his father’s words could also mean ‘Akbar is God’. Was his father claiming some sort of divinity? All around him he heard a surprised buzz of conversation. But looking up again he saw his father coolly observing the effect of his ambiguous cry. He raised his hands for silence, which fell instantly. ‘I have commanded my most trusted spiritual adviser Shaikh Mubarak to draw up a document that I will require every mullah in my empire to sign, which states that in any question of religious interpretation I – not they – am the final arbiter.’
Salim saw Shaikh Ahmad and the other members of the ulama exchange shocked glances as they took in the full import of their emperor’s words – that he stood higher in the knowledge of God than any mullah. Just like that King of England, Akbar was claiming for himself not only the role of head of state but of the head of religion within his empire. Akbar was smiling a little and Salim felt a new awe for the father whom with every passing day he felt little closer to understanding.
Chapter 17
Flaming Torches
‘Majesty, the Jesuit father Antonio Monserrate requests an urgent audience with you.’
Akbar looked up from the design of a new pavilion drawn by Tuhin Das that he had been studying with Abul Fazl, and Salim saw annoyance cross his father’s face. The talk of the court was that the Jesuits were growing presumptuous and arrogant. Whatever Akbar allowed them to do – from processing through the streets of Fatehpur Sikri behind a giant wooden cross with candles in their hands on their saints’ days, to building chapels, to aggressively seeking converts – never seemed to satisfy them. They had even petitioned Akbar to appoint Father Antonio as one of the tutors to his son Murad and from courtesy he had agreed.
‘What does he want?’
‘He would not say, Majesty, only that it was a matter of great urgency.’
‘Very well. I’ll receive him here in my private apartments.’
As always, Salim was surprised by his father’s tolerance. None of his subjects, however mighty, would dare importune the emperor so frequently. He waited to see whether his father would dismiss him and was pleased when Akbar signalled to him to stay.
The Jesuit entered, bowed briefly then without waiting for Akbar to say anything burst out, ‘Majesty, I heard something today that I found hard to believe. Your mullah Shaikh Mubarak says that you intend to inaugurate a new religion.’
‘What you heard was the truth. At the next Friday prayers I will announce to my subjects the introduction within my empire of the Din-i-Ilahi – the “Religion of God”.’
‘What is this blasphemy!’ Father Antonio’s already bulbous eyes looked about to pop from his skull.
‘Take care, Jesuit. You have received nothing but patience and indulgence at my court. In return what have you preached but narrow intolerance? Nothing you have said has convinced me that your Catholic church has anything particular to commend it. Indeed, no single religion seems to me to eclipse all others in truth or divinity – not even my own Muslim faith. That is why I have decided to fuse what is best in all the different religions – Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Christian and Muslim – into a new faith.’
‘And where does God sit in your structure – at your right hand, I presume, or will you allow him even that?’ Father Antonio was almost choking with indignation.
‘I am the focus of the Din-i-Ilahi as God’s chosen representative, his shadow upon the earth,’ Akbar said calmly but with a glint in his eye. ‘I do not intend to supplant God – that would indeed be blasphemy.’
‘If you persist in this misguided folly I and my fellow priests must withdraw from your court. I regret that I can no longer act as a tutor to Prince Murad.’
‘Leave if that is your wish. Your closed mind disappoints me. Indeed it makes me question whether I wish men such as yourselves to have even a toehold in my empire. Do not provoke me further if you wish your European adherents to retain their trading settlements.’
‘You have rejected the light and you will answer for it to one greater even than you think yourself.’ Father Antonio spoke with real venom in his tone. Then he gave a slight bow, turned and walked swiftly away through the open double doors past Akbar’s green-turbaned bodyguards.
Salim saw his father and Abul Fazl exchange amused smiles. Clearly they had anticipated the priest’s reaction
s. His own mind burned with questions and for once he did not lack the courage to voice them. ‘Why have you created this religion, Father? Won’t it anger the ulama?’ he asked.
It was Abul Fazl who answered. ‘Let the ulama think what they will. It is a natural progression. His Majesty is already, of course, the head of the Muslim faith within his empire but his subjects practise many religions. By creating the new faith, the Din-i-Ilahi, which will be open to all and calls upon no one to renounce his existing faith, His Majesty will become accepted by all his people as one of them – their rightful sovereign – and no longer be regarded like his grandfather and father as a foreign invader. Central to the ritual is the sun as the symbol of divinity. The Din-i-Ilahi will embrace the Hindu principles of reincarnation and that unification with the divine is the ultimate aim of the believer. Above all, the Din-i-llahi will teach men kindness, compassion, tolerance and respect for all living things. In so doing it will help them seek for spiritual truth but it will also secure the Moghul dynasty.’
Content to leave Abul Fazl to deal with Salim’s question, Akbar had already turned back to Tuhin Das’s drawing and didn’t see his son’s slight frown as he contemplated Abul Fazl’s words. To Salim it seemed a step too far. Surely this new ‘Divine Faith’ could alienate people just as easily as it could reconcile them to their Moghul rulers?
‘Majesty, an imperial post rider who passed by on his way to Fatehpur Sikri reports that the widow of a village headman is to be burned alive on his funeral pyre at sunset. You asked to be informed of all such incidents immediately.’
‘Where is this happening?’
‘In a village ten miles north of here.’
‘I have given explicit orders that I will not tolerate this barbarous practice of sati. How dare they defy me? I will go there myself. Have my horse saddled at once and detail a detachment of my bodyguards to accompany me.’
Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World Page 24