‘And?’
‘He was so full of his victory in Sind I thought he was going to agree but then he said he wished to consult his war council. It was Abul Fazl who next day brought me my father’s decision – that I lacked the experience for such a distant campaign. My father’s message ended with the usual words – “don’t be impatient”. But I know whose message it really was.’
‘You don’t know that. Maybe your father was concerned for your safety.’
‘Or maybe Abul Fazl didn’t want me to share in the glory . . . Nearly every day post riders have been bringing reports of the successful advance of our troops, of how they have already subdued the Baluchi tribes infesting the mountain passes leading to Kandahar and are advancing on the city itself. Last night came a despatch from Abdul Rahman, my father’s khan-i-khanan, that the Persian commander of Kandahar was about to surrender.’
‘That’s wonderful news. If it’s true, it means your father has extended the empire’s northern frontiers yet again . . . he now rules from Kandahar down to the Deccan in the south, from Bengal in the east to Sind in the west . . . Our forces are invincible. Who can challenge the Moghuls now?’ But the enthusiasm on Suleiman Beg’s face died as he took in Salim’s bleak expression.
‘It is good news, of course it is. My father is a great man – I know it and everybody else keeps telling me it. He has raised our dynasty to heights known to no other. But it would have been even better if I could have had a share in the action instead of sitting around always hoping for a chance to prove myself that never comes . . .’ So saying, Salim yanked his reins so hard his horse whinnied in protest. Then, wheeling his mount in the shallow water, he kicked sharply with his heels and without waiting for Suleiman Beg set off back towards the Lahore fort where his father was no doubt already beginning his meticulous planning of the grandiose celebrations he would hold to mark the capture of Kandahar. How could a man like Akbar, who from youth had known only success and glory, possibly understand the yawning emptiness, the futility of his own existence?
It was May. In just a few days the monsoon would begin and the heat was intense as musicians playing long brass pipes and beating drums suspended on thongs round their necks led the procession from the haram quarters within the Lahore palace out into the city. Next marched the eight bodyguards assigned to guard Akbar’s beloved grandson Khurram from the day of his birth. Then, mounted on matching cream-coloured ponies, came eight-year-old Khusrau and six-year-old Parvez, egrets’ feathers nodding in their tightly bound silk turbans.
Standing with some of Akbar’s most senior courtiers and commanders to the left-hand side of the carved sandstone entrance to the imperial school, Salim thought how serious his two elder sons looked, how stiffly they sat in their saddles. They weren’t used to such ceremonials. Much as their grandfather loved them, he had never put on such a show to mark the start of their formal education which, in line with Moghul tradition for the rearing of royal princes, began at the age of four years, four months and four days – Khurram’s exact age today. Beyond Khusrau and Parvez, Salim could see the baby elephant on which Khurram was riding and which Akbar himself was leading with a golden chain attached to the animal’s jewelled headplate. Immediately behind came the captain of Akbar’s own bodyguard, carrying the yak’s tail standard that since early times had been a symbol of Moghul rule.
Khurram himself was in an open howdah of beaten silver set with turquoises – a stone that Timur himself had loved to wear. A parasol of green silk embroidered with pearls and held aloft by the attendant riding behind him in the howdah protected him from the hot sunlight shafting down from a completely clear blue sky. Salim felt sweat running between his shoulder blades, though he too was protected by a silk canopy. But as the procession drew nearer, Salim realised that despite the heat his youngest son was relishing the occasion. Unlike his elder brothers he didn’t seem to find his elaborate clothes – a gold brocade coat and green pantaloons – uncomfortable. Gems sparkled round his neck and on his fingers and in the tiny ceremonial dagger tucked into his sash. Though he looked like a little bejewelled doll he was clearly enjoying himself, smiling and looking anything but nervous, waving to the straining, cheering crowds being held back by soldiers.
A large red and blue Persian carpet had been spread out in front of the school steps. Some twenty paces away from them, the musicians fell silent and the procession divided to one side or the other leaving Akbar and Khurram on his baby elephant alone in front of the school. Akbar advanced to the very centre of the carpet, and after a quick glance at his grandson to assure himself that the boy was seated securely, addressed Salim and the assembled members of his court.
‘I have invited you here to witness an important event. My beloved grandson Prince Khurram will today begin his education. I have assembled the best scholars from within my empire and beyond. They will instruct him in every subject from literature and mathematics to astronomy and the history of his forebears, and will guide him on the journey from boyhood to manhood.’
Yes, thought Salim, and they included Abul Fazl’s father Shaikh Mubarak, who was to instruct Khurram about religion. Abul Fazl himself was standing just a few paces away, his usual leather-bound ledger beneath his right arm, doubtless ready to compose some florid verses about the occasion. As if aware of Salim’s scrutiny, the chronicler returned his stare, then looked away again. Salim returned his attention to his father.
‘The prince has already shown signs of exceptional ability,’ Akbar was saying. ‘My astrologers predict that he will achieve great things. Come, Khurram, it is time.’
He released the catches fastening the side of the howdah and lifted Khurram down. Then, taking the child by the hand, he walked slowly towards the high, arched entrance. As they passed within a few feet of Salim, Khurram gave him a quick smile but Akbar continued to look straight ahead. Another few moments and they had vanished inside. Salim tried to compose his thoughts. A father should be able to do things for his sons. He, not Akbar, should have taken Khurram to school on his first day, just as he had taken Khusrau and Parvez. He not Akbar should have chosen his son’s tutors. But Akbar had robbed him of all that . . .
The familiar heaviness that always came when he thought about Khurram settled around his heart. He loved him but he didn’t know him and perhaps never would. When the ties between parent and child were broken so early perhaps they could never be mended . . . Hamida had once told him that his great-grandfather Babur had been moved by his love for one wife to give her the child of another. Akbar had deprived him and Jodh Bai of their son as surely as Babur had robbed that mother of her child. For a moment he stared at the archway into the school, tempted to enter, but what would be the point? Akbar, he was pretty sure, didn’t want him there. Khurram didn’t need him.
‘Highness, your other sons and the rest of the procession are about to return to the palace. Only your father’s bodyguards are remaining here. Shall we go back?’ Suleiman Beg’s voice forced Salim back to the present. Like himself, his friend was sweating. The heat was becoming unbearable. Salim nodded. It would be good to return to the cool and shade of the palace and Jodh Bai would be eager to hear how well Khurram had conducted himself.
‘Your father certainly knows how to put on a spectacle. The crowds were almost hysterical,’ Suleiman Beg went on as, with Salim’s own bodyguard behind them, and fanned by attendants wielding giant peacock-feather fans, they slowly retraced their steps.
‘He likes to show the people his wealth and splendour. He thinks it makes them proud to be citizens of the Moghul empire – and proud to be his subjects.’
‘He’s right. Didn’t you hear their shouts of “Allah Akbar”? They love him.’
‘Yes.’ Salim’s head was beginning to ache and the sun’s glare – so relentlessly bright – was hurting his eyes. Everyone loved Akbar. He began to walk more quickly, suddenly desperate to be back in his own apartments and alone with his thoughts.
His father was sensible t
o have waited for the cool weather to return before making the journey south from Lahore to inspect the newly reconstructed fort at Agra, Salim reflected as, six months later, the imperial party rode on elephant-back up the steep, twisting ramp with its right-angled turns designed to slow down and frustrate attackers and through the fort’s towering gateway, the great gates studded with spikes to wound any elephant which tried to batter them down. Akbar was on the leading elephant, Khurram as usual by his side.
‘Majesty, you have surpassed yourself,’ said Abul Fazl when they descended from their howdahs a few minutes later, gazing up at the seventy-foot-high sandstone battlements snaking a mile and a half around the reconstructed fort.
For once Abul Fazl wasn’t exaggerating, Salim had to admit. Unlike Akbar, he hadn’t visited the fort while the work had been under way but he had seen the plans drawn up by his father’s architects and knew that Akbar had remodelled the Agra fort almost completely, strengthening its external defences, beautifying its interior and massively extending it to make it more imposing and imperial. The old building constructed by the Lodi dynasty and seized from them by Babur had been of brick as much as of sandstone. Akbar had used only sandstone, employing Hindu craftsmen to carve it just as he had at Fatehpur Sikri. New courtyards and gardens were enclosed by elegant colonnades. Over one hundred sandstone columns supported the roof of the new durbar hall.
‘Well, Salim, what do you think?’ Akbar was almost visibly swelling with pride as he looked about him.
‘It’s magnificent,’ said Salim, doing no more than speak his thoughts. All around him the courtiers Akbar had brought with him from Lahore on this tour of inspection were also murmuring their admiration.
‘So it should be, given the cost, but our coffers are deep. I could build a hundred such forts.’ Akbar ran a hand over a carved frieze of narcissi and irises so delicate and detailed they appeared to be bending in the wind. ‘What about you, Khurram? Do you think the builders have done well?’
Khurram’s young eyes didn’t look that impressed. ‘They’ve just done what you told them to do, Grandfather.’
Akbar threw back his head and laughed. ‘You are hard to please; that’s not a bad thing in a prince. But I think I can impress even you.’ Akbar stripped off his silk tunic and the fine muslin shirt beneath it. Despite his age, he was still magnificently muscled, his torso lean and hard as that of a man half his age. ‘You two, come over here,’ he shouted to two of the youngest of his bodyguards. They exchanged a startled look then hurried forward. ‘Put down your weapons and strip off like me.’
The men hurriedly did as they were told. What was his father doing? wondered Salim. All around, people were staring at the emperor in astonishment, but Akbar was grinning. ‘Now come over here so I can look at you properly.’ As the two young men stood before him, Akbar ran his hands over their arms and shoulders, feeling their muscles. ‘Not bad, but I wish I had chosen bigger stronger men.’ Then, without warning, he punched the bigger of the two guards in the stomach. The youth gasped and doubled over, clutching himself and breathing in great, wheezy gasps. ‘You need to toughen up. Where are you from?’
‘Delhi, Majesty,’ he managed to gulp out.
‘If you were of the old Moghul clans you could have taken a blow twice as hard without flinching. Let me show you what I am made of.’ Akbar lunged forward, grabbed the youth round the waist and shoving him under his left arm lifted him from the ground. Then, satisfied, he let the guard’s feet touch the ground again. ‘You, come to my other side,’ he ordered the second youth, who a moment later was gripped tight by Akbar’s right arm. Bracing his legs apart, Akbar took a deep breath and lifted both young men off the ground at once.
Khurram let out a delighted shriek, but Akbar hadn’t finished. Lifting the men yet higher so that his arm muscles bulged and the veins stood out among the whitened battle scars, he began to run towards the battlements. ‘What are you waiting for, Khurram?’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Come with me.’ Khurram at once trotted after his grandfather. After a moment’s hesitation Salim followed, his other sons and the rest of the courtiers close behind. Akbar had gone insane, he was thinking as he saw his father climb the flight of sandstone steps to the battlements, accidentally banging the head of one of the men he was clutching, and begin running along them.
Watching that dogged figure, Salim guessed what Akbar was intending to do – run the whole mile and a half. Sure enough, though running slowly, Akbar didn’t falter until he had completed the entire circuit and descended to the courtyard once more. His breathing was ragged and sweat was pouring off his body as he released the two soldiers, one of whom indeed had a fine bruise on his forehead, but his expression was triumphant.
‘Majesty, you still have the strength of your youth,’ said Abul Fazl, who had followed Akbar round the battlements and was not as out of breath as Salim expected. He was fitter than he looked.
‘Well, Khurram? What do you say now? Have I impressed you?’
The child nodded. ‘You are the strongest man I know, Grandfather. Are you going to teach me how to hunt like you promised?’
‘Of course. And more than that I am going to teach you how we make war. When you are just a little older you will attend the meetings of my war council and I will take you on campaign. I have created a great empire but all that will be for nothing if my descendants cannot make it greater still. Such an education cannot begin too early.’
Chapter 23
Pomegranate Blossom
Dusk had fallen on the eighth day of the Nauruz, the New Year festival which celebrated the sun’s entry into Aries. In a few minutes the feasting would begin again in the palace courtyard, where servants were lighting candles and arranging cushions around low tables. Salim, already dressed for the evening’s entertainment, eyed the scene without enthusiasm. The Nauruz was a Persian custom that Akbar had introduced into Hindustan. Apart from the emperor’s birthday, it was the most lavish of all spectacles at a court where shows of opulence and extravagance were the rule, and his father attended to every detail himself.
Each day so far had brought camel races and elephant fights, singing and dancing, fireworks and acrobatics and the heaping of money and fresh honours on Akbar’s loyal commanders and courtiers. Each night the emperor had been the guest of a different noble, but tonight was his own feast for his special favourites which must, of course, surpass all others. Guests would drink from jade cups inlaid with rubies and emeralds. Standing in the shadow of a sandstone column, Salim watched the fortunate few beginning to arrive, eyes lingering on the gleaming cups, doubtless calculating whether they would be allowed to keep them at the end of the evening’s revelry. In the centre of the courtyard, on a dais draped with cloth of gold, stood the green velvet, pearl-embroidered canopy supported on silver poles beneath which Akbar himself would sit on a low throne.
The Nauruz was not a time of rest for the cooks. They had been busy since dawn. The rich, savoury aroma of roasting fowl and of whole sheep basted with a mixture of saffron, cloves, cumin seed and ghee as they turned on the spit was already filling the air. It wasn’t long before three trumpet blasts announced the arrival of the emperor. Salim scrutinised the magnificent gold-clad figure moving through the ranks of courtiers as they bowed low before him, like a field of bright Kashmiri flowers bending to the wind. Not even Timur himself could have presented such an image. Tonight Akbar, the absolute ruler of all he surveyed, would sit alone in his magnificence on his dais. A table below and to the right had been prepared for Salim and his half-brother Daniyal. Abul Fazl and Abdul Rahman would sit at an identical table positioned symmetrically to the left.
Seeing that his father was now seated, Salim moved through the guests to take his place beside Daniyal. Akbar acknowledged him with a brief nod then returned his attention to a dish that his food taster had just presented to him. As always, his father ate sparingly. Salim had often heard him criticise commanders for getting soft and fat. ‘With a belly like that y
ou could never have ridden with my grandfather on his conquest of Hindustan, though the clan chiefs might have employed you as a jester,’ he had recently rebuked a corpulent Tajik officer at least fifteen years his junior as he patted him on his round stomach. Akbar had been smiling, but Salim knew him well enough to know it wasn’t a joke and sure enough the officer had soon been ordered to a remote outpost in Bengal where he would sweat off his fat among the swamps and mosquitoes.
Sometimes Salim watched Akbar as he exercised. Thrusting and parrying with a sword, bending his favourite bow of white poplar to shoot down a pigeon, or wrestling, he could still beat men half his age. Salim glanced at Daniyal, whose flushed and sweating face revealed he had not come to the feast entirely sober. His dilated pupils and foolish half-grin as he looked about him suggested he had also taken opium. Daniyal was weak, Salim thought. But as he saw his brother’s shaking hands trying and failing to hold his drinking cup steady he felt some pity. He could understand the temptation. Sometimes in his frustration he too drank to excess or found consolation in bhang – cannabis – or a few pellets of opium dissolved in rosewater. But those times were rare. He wanted to keep himself sharp in mind and body just in case his father should give him a military command or some other responsibility he craved.
Daniyal, though, seemed to have abandoned thoughts of anything but pleasure, while if the rumours from Malwa and Gujarat were true Murad was growing ever fonder of drinking and squandering his chance to impress his father in the post that Salim had so desired. Surely he had deserved the opportunity more, he thought. Why had his father and Abul Fazl deprived him of it? He was more of a man than his half-brothers and as much of a man as his father, despite all the latter’s exercising. All he wanted was to prove himself so.
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