‘Why should he do that?’
‘Because he doesn’t know whether he wants me to succeed him. He’s reluctant to give me any real power or responsibility because he fears that will be a sign to me – and to others – that I am his chosen heir.’
‘You don’t know that. It might just be that he’s wary of giving up any power to anyone. How old is he?’
‘He’ll be forty-nine in October.’
‘There you are then. Though he looks so vigorous and strong he’s not a young man any more. In his heart he’ll know that and he probably resents you or anyone who might one day succeed him – he’s like the old tiger driven from his haunts by a younger male.’
‘How come you think you’re so knowledgeable?’
Suleiman Beg shrugged, then grinned, showing very white teeth. ‘My father’s almost exactly the same age and he’s the same. He does nothing but find fault with me, never asks my opinion about anything. I just keep out of his way. I wish your father would post him back to Bengal.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps my father doesn’t intentionally mean to slight me. He’s certainly shown no more favour to my half-brothers. Murad and Daniyal lead the same aimless lives as I do.’
‘But they continue to find ways of solacing themselves.’
‘What do you mean?’
Suleiman arched an eyebrow. ‘Surely you’ve heard the latest about their parties? Sometimes they’re too drunk to get themselves to bed. Their attendants often have to carry them back to their apartments and two weeks ago Murad nearly drowned when he collapsed into one of the water channels in the garden.’
‘Doesn’t their behaviour make you understand how I feel? I don’t want my sons to lead empty lives, not knowing what the future holds, and as a result succumb to the temptations that self-seeking people dangle before princes for their own purposes. I want to be emperor and give my sons the chance of fighting by my side as we expand and strengthen our empire.’
‘You’re too impatient. Your father may have many years to live.’
‘I pray he does. If you think I want my father out of this world and in Paradise you’re wrong. But I can’t live through many more years like this, with no way of achieving anything. I might just as well be one of my concubines lying on cushions all day and growing plump on sweetmeats, or one of the fat eunuchs who never draw a dagger or a sword. I’m a young man, a warrior, I need opportunities now. If my father shuts me out I have nothing. It’s not like the days of our ancestors when a Moghul prince could ride off in search of new lands where he could carve out a kingdom for himself as my great-grandfather Babur did. In his lifetime he ruled Ferghana, Samarkand and Kabul before he came near Hindustan. When he was half my age he’d already made his mark on the world.’
‘Highness . . .’ It was one of Salim’s qorchis. ‘Your wife Jodh Bai asks that you go to her.’
Salim nodded, and at the thought of Jodh Bai, her endearingly round little face even rounder with happiness as she’d told him the news of her pregnancy earlier that day, his own grim expression softened. He should be glad of what he had. And Suleiman Beg was right. Just as so many others had counselled him – Shaikh Salim Chishti, who now lay in a marble tomb in the courtyard of the mosque in Fatehpur Sikri, and his grandmother, and his great-aunt – he must learn patience.
‘I will go to her straight away. Suleiman Beg, when I return we’ll celebrate, as you suggest.’
‘And don’t forget one thing you already have over your father. It took him far longer than you to produce heirs . . .’
Akbar held his new grandson in his arms. ‘I name you Khurram, meaning “joyous”. May your life be so and may you bring joy to all around you. But more than that, may you make our empire yet greater.’ Akbar smiled down at Khurram’s tiny face, wizened like all newborn babies’, and tightened his grip on the small squirming body wrapped in green velvet that Salim had just placed in his arms. Then he looked up to address his courtiers and commanders. ‘The court astronomers tell me that the conjunction of the planets at the moment of Khurram’s birth three days ago was the same as at the birth of my great ancestor, Timur. That in itself is highly auspicious, but there is more: this is the millennium year of our Islamic calendar, while the month of my grandson’s birth is the same as that of the Prophet Muhammad. This child will, as Abul Fazl here has already recorded in the chronicles, be “a riband in the cap of royalty and more resplendent than the sun”.’
Salim’s face flushed with pride as he looked at Khurram. His father’s delight in this new grandson seemed to know no bounds. Just a few hours after the birth, having heard the astronomers’ excited comparisons with Timur’s birth, he had sent Salim a pair of matched black stallions and fine silks and perfume to Jodh Bai. The tenderness on his face as he held Khurram was something Salim had never witnessed and filled him with renewed hope. Surely this would bind him and his father closer together and help to assure his own succession. It seemed that God himself had spoken by bringing Khurram into the world on such a day.
Looking at his son in his father’s arms, Salim wished he could roll the years forward and see what those wrinkled features, those tiny limbs, would one day become. If the stargazers were correct this child would be a great warrior, a conqueror, a ruler whose name would pass down through time when others were forgotten.
Akbar was raising jewelled hands to signal he had more to say. ‘Because the omens surrounding the birth of this child are so special I have decided that I myself will rear him.’
Salim stared at Akbar as he struggled to take in what his father was saying. Surely he didn’t mean . . .? But as he continued to listen to Akbar’s calm but authoritative voice, his father’s intentions were becoming clearer by the moment.
‘Prince Khurram will be placed in the care of one of my wives, Rukhiya Begum, in my haram so that I may see him at any hour of the day or night. As he begins to grow I will appoint special tutors to superintend his education but will also take a hand myself.’
Didn’t his father even trust him to bring up his own son? Salim stared at the ground, willing himself not to look at Akbar because of what he might say or do. The most senior members of the court were present, he told himself, driving the nails of one hand into the palm of another so hard that he thought he had drawn blood. Causing a disturbance was unthinkable. He tried to steady his thoughts and to control his breathing, which had suddenly become jerky, as if he could not draw in enough air. Then another thought struck him with sickening force. Was his father thinking of eventually naming Khurram as his heir? Surely not . . . Glancing sideways he caught Abul Fazl watching him. The chronicler’s small eyes looked interested, as if assessing how Salim was taking the news. What role had Abul Fazl played in this? Salim suddenly wondered. Was he encouraging Akbar to favour Khurram to extend the length of his time in power? He might seek to be regent if Khurram came to the throne in childhood. At the thought, such red-hot anger spurted through Salim that it was all he could do not to pull his dagger from his sash, spring forward and draw the blade across Abul Fazl’s fleshy throat.
But he would not give the chronicler the satisfaction of seeing how much his father had hurt him. He forced his features to look composed, but all the time his mind was racing, trying to work out the implications of Akbar’s theft of his son. It was little consolation that Khurram would have the best of everything and Rukhiya Begum was a kind woman. Salim had known her all his life. Plain-faced and grey-haired, she was Akbar’s cousin – the daughter of his long-dead uncle Hindal – and at least Akbar’s age. She was also childless. Her marriage to Akbar – as with his marriages to so many in his vast haram – had probably barely been consummated. No, he need have no fears for Khurram. The victims were himself and Jodh Bai, who would be deprived of daily contact with their son . . .
At the thought of Jodh Bai, Salim’s jaw tightened. She had waited a long time for a child, and to have him given completely into the care of another would hurt her badly. Rukhiya Begum would
appoint the child’s milk-mothers. Rukhiya Begum would be the one to watch Khurram’s daily progress. As soon as the celebration feast was over, Salim slipped away to find Jodh Bai in the haram. Her eyes were reddened with tears but she was not hysterical as Man Bai would have been had the newborn Khusrau been taken from her. She was sitting quietly on a yellow brocade divan, hands clasped together. Salim stooped and kissed her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what my father was planning.’
For a moment Jodh Bai said nothing. When she did speak, her voice was calm. ‘Your father has sent me another gift.’ Opening her hands she revealed what she had been clutching – a magnificent gold chain set with glowing rubies and large pearls. Armies had fought for less. ‘It’s beautiful, but I would rather the emperor had left me my son.’ She let the shining necklace trickle through her fingers on to the indigo carpet beneath her feet, where it lay like a jewelled snake.
‘One day, I promise you, I will find a way of making amends for this – and so will Khurram. He won’t always be a boy in his grandfather’s thrall and the bonds between a mother and her son are strong, whatever the circumstances.’ As he himself knew, thought Salim, as an image of Hirabai’s proud face, softening as she looked at him, came into his mind.
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Jodh Bai asked, then shook her head as if impatient with herself. ‘Of course there isn’t. Your father is the emperor and it is a great honour that he should wish to bring up our child. I shouldn’t complain.’
Grief sat oddly on her round face, usually so alive with humour, and Salim felt tears prick his own eyelids – tears for her, tears of frustration at his powerlessness. But he also felt a new resolve. Hide your feelings, he told himself; be patient. Your time will come . . . You will rule.
But as Salim reflected on those words over the months ahead they seemed to him ever more empty. His situation had less to do with patience than with powerlessness, he realised. Every day he had to live with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do. He was entirely dependent on Akbar, whose delight and interest in his grandson showed no sign of diminishing. Salim knew he should be pleased his father loved Khurram so much . . . that he mustn’t resent the fact that Akbar had never responded to him like that. But it was hard. So was having to endure the sight of Khurram, on his rare visits to Jodh Bai, twisting in her unfamiliar arms and bawling to be returned to the milk-mother Rukhiya Begum had appointed. Jodh Bai tried to hide her sorrow but it never left her, he was sure.
All the time, Salim’s thoughts had kept returning to Abul Fazl, surely the author of so many things that had happened to frustrate his hopes. And if he’d needed any further proof that this man was his enemy, he’d just received it, Salim thought as on a warm summer’s day he strode towards Abul Fazl’s apartments in the Lahore fort.
‘Highness, you honour me by your visit. I was just recording in the chronicle His Majesty’s departure to Agra to inspect the rebuilding of the fort.’ Abul Fazl rose to his feet as Salim was ushered in. A polite smile was spread across his fleshy features but the small eyes looked watchful.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t gone with him.’
‘His Majesty will be away for nearly two months. He wished me to remain in Lahore so I could report anything of which he needed to be aware.’ Abul Fazl’s smooth, reasonable tone and his even smoother smile never failed to set Salim on edge but for once he felt no compulsion to hide his feelings.
‘I have just heard that my half-brother Murad has been appointed Governor of Malwa and Gujarat.’
‘Indeed, Highness. He is to leave Lahore to take up his new position in a month’s time.’
‘That is the post I asked my father to give me. He told me he would think about it. What happened?’
Abul Fazl spread his hands. ‘His Majesty can best answer that question. You know that he appoints all the governors of our provinces himself.’
‘I can’t ask him. As you yourself observed, he isn’t here. That’s why I’m asking you. You are his mouth and ears. I thought you knew everything.’
Salim’s tone was contemptuous. Yet he could see that instead of being offended, Abul Fazl was battling with his vanity. It hurt the man to pretend he didn’t know what was going on and it seemed he was prepared to lose that battle without too much of a struggle. His heavy-featured face eased into a smile. ‘What I can say is that His Majesty decided that Prince Murad would be well suited to the post.’
‘Better suited than me?’ If the increasingly colourful stories circulating the court were true, Murad was often too drunk to stand unaided.
‘I am sure Your Highness would also make an excellent governor,’ said Abul Fazl, evading the question.
‘Did my father ask your advice on the appointment?’
Abul Fazl hesitated a moment. ‘As I said before, His Majesty takes such decisions himself. My role is simply to record them.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Highness?’ Abul Fazl looked truly shocked. It occurred to Salim that over the many years the chronicler had served his father, they had almost never been alone together. The knowledge that Akbar was far from the court was liberating and Salim persisted with what he had started, not just the frustration of this latest matter of the governorship but the resentments and suspicions of years urging him on.
‘I said that I don’t believe you. My father consults you on everything and will have done so over appointing a governor in Malwa and Gujarat.’
Abul Fazl’s smile faded. ‘My discussions with your father are confidential. It would be a breach of trust for me to say more. You should know that, Highness.’
There was no unctuousness now in Abul Fazl’s voice and for the first time Salim sensed how formidable this man was. But he would not be deterred. ‘I know my father holds you in high esteem.’
‘As I do him. I am his loyallest subject.’ Abul Fazl’s voice was steely.
‘But shouldn’t your loyalty extend to the rest of my father’s family?’ Salim seized Abul Fazl by the shoulders and stared him in the face. ‘I am his eldest son, but ever since I began to grow up you’ve schemed to keep us apart. If it wasn’t for you, my father would have invited me to the meetings of his war council as a matter of course. You encouraged him to exclude me. Don’t deny it.’
Abul Fazl didn’t flinch but replied in a level tone, looking Salim steadily in the eye, ‘I have always given His Majesty the best advice I could. If you want to know the truth, he didn’t invite you because he didn’t think your presence would be useful. As he himself told me, you disappoint him.’
Salim let go of Abul Fazl. Those brief but brutal words wounded him more than any weapon could ever do. Hadn’t he always feared he’d never live up to his father’s expectations, however hard he tried . . .? Suddenly, just as when Akbar announced he was going to bring up Khurram, Salim became aware of Abul Fazl’s hungry scrutiny, as if he wanted to observe every painful emotion passing through him. He must not let Abul Fazl feed his fears, nor must he show him his comments had hurt. Pulling himself together, he said, ‘You have always tried to create mischief between me and my father, and if you hadn’t always been there at his side he and I would have got to understand one another better. You may be loyal to him, as you say, but only because that best serves your interests. Know this. I see you for what you are, and the day when my father sees it as well will be a good one.’
They were eyeing each other now like enemies on the battlefield, but Salim knew that to strike Abul Fazl would only strengthen the chronicler’s position when he reported their confrontation to his father. Perhaps what he’d already said had been unwise but he couldn’t regret it. From now on the chronicler might be more wary of the emperor’s eldest son. As for himself, he would watch Abul Fazl to find some evidence of corruption and self-interest, and when he found it he would act. Turning on his heel, he walked quickly from the apartment out into the sunlit palace courtyard. Glancing back, he saw Abul Fazl watching him from the casement window.
Chapter 22
The Battlements of Agra
‘What’s the matter? You’ve been preoccupied all afternoon. I thought you’d have so much to tell me.’
‘I have. Abul Fazl will soon be returning to court from the tour of inspection in Delhi my father sent him on,’ said Salim to Suleiman Beg, as they rode slowly into the shallows of the Ravi river to allow the steaming horses they had just raced along its banks to cool off. Suleiman Beg had been with his father in the Punjab and they hadn’t seen one another for some months.
‘So what? You’re obsessed with him.’
‘I have good cause.’
‘Just because he’s ambitious and relishes being your father’s confidant doesn’t make him your enemy.’
‘He fears me – and my brothers – as rivals, I’m sure of it. That’s why he reports every fault, every indiscretion of Murad and Daniyal to my father – don’t interrupt me, Suleiman Beg, I know he does. I’ve heard him do it.’
‘Perhaps he regards it as his duty. Your brothers are idiots.’
‘That’s not the point. What matters is that he tries to damage me as well in my father’s eyes.’
‘He’s never told your father about your argument with him . . . not in the whole two years since it happened, has he?’
‘My father’s never said anything. But maybe Abul Fazl thought it didn’t reflect well on him either.’
‘Or perhaps he’s learned his lesson.’
‘No. He still tries to exclude me from everything. You weren’t at court when my father told me that having conquered Sind he intended to send a Moghul army to seize Kandahar.’ Salim’s horse lowered its head to drink the muddy river water and he gently stroked its sweat-mottled neck. ‘I begged my father to let me go on the campaign as one of the commanders . . . I argued that I’d proved myself in Kashmir and deserved further opportunities. I even said it was a matter of family honour – we lost Kandahar to the Persians when my grandfather Humayun died and it was right that his eldest grandson should help win it back.’
Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World Page 29