Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘I pray for all our sakes that you’ve read your father aright.’

  ‘Your grandmother’s caravan is no more than two miles away,’ one of Salim’s qorchis announced. Ever since her steward, the stout middle-aged Badakhshani who a few years ago had replaced the white-haired old man Salim had known all his life, had ridden through the gateway into the fortress of Allahabad the day before, Salim had been nervously awaiting Hamida’s arrival. After a few hours’ broken sleep, he had been pacing his apartments since dawn, steeling himself not to call for spirits or opium to calm his racing mind. He would be glad to see his grandmother, which he hadn’t done since he departed from his father’s court many months ago at the beginning of his bid to establish his own authority. Despite his marriages and his love for his mercurial, strong-minded mother, Hamida remained the woman he felt the greatest affection for. He had always been able to rely on her calm sympathy and sound common sense, knowing that she was motivated only by love and affection for him. However, would she understand why he had felt compelled to raise troops against his father? Had his father sent her to him? Had she come on her own initiative? Surely she must bring a message from Akbar, but what would it be? He felt much more uncertain of his father’s reaction than he had claimed to Suleiman Beg when first hearing of Abul Fazl’s death. Soon he would find out for sure.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll come to the courtyard immediately to welcome her to Allahabad myself.’

  Salim had only been standing for a few minutes beneath the green awning in the sunlit courtyard, which had been strewn with fragrant rose petals on his orders, when he saw through the open metal-bound gates the leading outriders of his grandmother’s procession approach. Then, to the blaring of trumpets and the beating of kettledrums from the gatehouse, the large elephant bearing Hamida slowly entered, the fringes of its long embroidered surcoat – its jhool – brushing through the rose petals. The interior of the gilded and jewelled howdah was carefully screened from sun and prying eyes by thin cream gauze curtains.

  As soon as the mahout had brought the elephant gently down on to its knees, Salim ordered all the male attendants and guards to depart. Then he walked slowly towards the howdah, mounted the small portable platform that had been placed next to it to assist its elderly occupant to descend and opened the gauze curtains. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside, he made out the familiar figure of his grandmother. Although she was now in her seventies, she was sitting as straight-backed as he remembered. Opposite her, head bowed respectfully, was one of her favourite attendants, Zubaida, his old nursemaid whom he had rescued from the ravine in Kashmir. Salim leaned forward and kissed Hamida on the forehead.

  ‘You are most welcome to my fortress in Allahabad, Grandmother,’ he said, realising as he spoke how awkward, formal and even assertive he sounded.

  ‘I’m pleased to be here. You’ve been away from your proper place at the heart of our family for far too long.’ Then, perhaps seeing the hardening expression on Salim’s face and anticipating a tirade of exculpation, Hamida continued, ‘We’ll talk about that later. Now help me and Zubaida to descend.’

  Towards dusk that evening, Salim walked slowly over to the women’s section of the fortress where he had had the best rooms – those on the highest storey overlooking the Ganges – prepared for his grandmother’s use. Claiming that she was tired after the journey and needed to wash and refresh herself and then to rest, Hamida had insisted they should not meet again until the heat of the day was dying. This had left Salim yet more time to brood on what message his grandmother might have and to try to interpret the few words they had exchanged. He had even wondered whether Hamida had brought Zubaida, now at least eighty, bent and totally white-haired, with her to remind him both of his childhood and of the times in Kashmir when he was closest to Akbar. Eventually he had abandoned such speculations as futile and filled the time first by practising swordplay with Suleiman Beg and then by luxuriating in the fort’s bathhouse.

  Entering the cool dark staircase leading to the top floor of the women’s quarters, Salim increased his pace, once more eager to see his grandmother and hear any message she brought. As he parted the silken hangings leading into her room he saw that Hamida, neatly but not ostentatiously dressed in purple silk, was sitting on a low chair while Zubaida put the finishing touches to her still thick hair by inserting clasps set with amethysts. Seeing her grandson, Hamida asked Zubaida to leave, which she did, bowing to Salim as she went.

  ‘Sit down on that stool, Salim, where I can see you,’ said Hamida. He did so despite the pulsing tension within him which meant that he would have been far happier being free to roam the apartment. Without any more preliminaries Hamida began, her voice as soft and authoritative as he remembered.

  ‘For the sake of the dynasty there must be no more posturing and parading of armies. You and your father must be reconciled and join together in defeating our real enemies and expanding our empire.’

  ‘I have never intended to harm the family. I respect our lineage and the deeds of our ancestors too much. I want the empire to prosper and grow, but my father refuses to understand my desire to assist him by sharing in the imperial duties. Instead he misinterprets my actions as threats to his authority.’

  ‘Easy enough for him to do so when you have had his chief counsellor and one of his best friends murdered.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Don’t deny it, Salim. Honesty has always been something we’ve shared.’

  ‘Abul Fazl saw me as a threat to his influence and powers of patronage. I have long since despised his smooth hypocrisy and scarcely concealed corruption. His death can mark a new beginning in how the court is run.’

  ‘And indeed perhaps in your relationship with your father. But have you got the insight to put yourself in your father’s place and appreciate how much Abul Fazl’s death hurt him? I think not, given all that’s passed between you, so I will tell you. Imagine how you would feel if your father had Suleiman Beg murdered. After the treachery of his own milk-brother and milk-mother your father never trusted anyone fully again. I even think that their betrayal may lie behind his refusal to delegate real power to you and your half-brothers. However, over time he did begin to rely on Abul Fazl. Think then how he felt when he learned of his murder on the orders of someone else he should have been able to trust – yourself.

  ‘Your father heard the news when he was visiting the imperial pigeon cotes, testing the speed and homing ability of some of his favourite birds. He almost collapsed and had to be helped weeping to his apartments where he remained alone for two days, refusing to see anyone or eat anything. When he emerged, red-eyed, dishevelled and unshaven, he ordered a week’s court mourning for Abul Fazl. Then he went straight to reproach your mother with giving birth to such an undutiful son. She simply told him that she was glad you had a mind of your own to stand up to him.’

  Salim smiled as he pictured the meeting between the two.

  ‘Your father’s grief is not a cause for amusement,’ Hamida continued sternly. ‘When I visited him, he broke down into tears again. He said, “I know Salim was behind this. What have I – his father – done to deserve such treatment from him? My people and my courtiers love me and respect me. Why cannot my eldest son do the same?” I tried to explain that you were still young and as such more alive to your ambitions and your need for experience than to the feelings of others. But I told him that even so, he had been harder and less sensitive and forgiving in his handling of you than of some of his nobles. I reminded him his own father had died before there could be any conflict of ambitions and that in the early years of his rule he had been impatient and resentful of all restraint and advice. He acknowledged this only grudgingly at first. However, after more discussions over the succeeding days, in which I appealed to him to show to you the magnanimity and wisdom he is renowned for across the empire, he agreed to my coming here to see if you could be reconciled.’

  ‘I am truly glad you did, but is it really in m
y father’s character to allow me the power I crave? Isn’t he more like the male tiger who consumes his own young if they should seem to threaten his authority?’

  ‘And what about you, Salim? Can’t you admit that you have been foolish and headstrong at times? You were the one to behave like a young male animal when you made love to his concubine Anarkali.’

  ‘I was thoughtless . . . I had no concern for the consequences of my lust, only for the lust itself. I admit I was wrong . . . I cost Anarkali her life, and yes, on that occasion I strained my father’s patience.’

  ‘That is an understatement. Your father is a great man, as powerful a warrior as his ancestors Timur and Genghis Khan and a more tolerant, wiser ruler than either. I know that the parents and the children of great men often view them differently from others. However, you showed him no respect as a parent, as a man or as an emperor. You undermined the dignity that is so important to his position. A less forgiving man – one less understanding of his son’s youthful lust – would have had you executed like Anarkali.’

  ‘I know that, and I am grateful. But many other times my father has slighted me and caused me to lose face before the whole court by his dismissive treatment of me.’

  ‘You brought him pain through your inability to control your other appetites – not just your lust. Like your half-brothers you’ve staggered around the court helplessly drunk or glassy-faced with opium. Your father is a proud man and very conscious of his imperial dignity. He feels your behaviour has humiliated him as well as you in the eyes of the court.’

  ‘But I’ve attempted to reform my habits, unlike Daniyal – or Murad when he was alive.’

  ‘And your father gives you credit for it.’

  ‘Does he? And what about Abul Fazl?’

  ‘He thinks you tried to punish him by killing his best friend but he insists he will set the ties of blood above those of friendship – and I believe he will try. Indeed, he knows he must do so. With Murad dead and Daniyal still soaked in alcohol, you and in due course your sons must be the future of the dynasty.’

  A wave of relief swept through Salim. He had been right in his analysis of his father. ‘So he recognises that he needs me?’

  ‘Yes, and you should recognise that you need him more. He could crush your little rebellion if he wanted to. Even if he simply publicly disowned and disinherited you, you would find it difficult to retain your authority or your followers. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  Salim said nothing. His grandmother was right. His own position was not as strong as he liked to pretend. His plan to force his father’s hand to give him power was going nowhere. The treasury of Allahabad was emptying fast. He would need to find more money soon if his forces were not to begin to melt away. He was isolated from the court and the nobles there, many of whom he would have to win over if he were to succeed his father. He wished to see his sons, who would have heard only their grandfather’s views about his rebellion. Most important, he knew that latterly at least there had been faults on both sides in his arguments with his father. But it hurt his pride to admit it. Finally he simply said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you agree to be reconciled?’

  ‘Yes . . . provided that I am not humiliated in the process.’

  ‘You will not be. I give you my word. Your father has agreed to allow me the responsibility of organising the ceremony before the court.’

  ‘Then I am content.’

  ‘When the trumpets sound you will enter the durbar hall through the right-hand door,’ said Hamida. Salim had accompanied her back from Allahabad to within a day’s ride from Agra, which his father had recently restored as his capital. Then he had encamped while Hamida had gone on alone to the Agra fort to tell Akbar of his son’s agreement to their reconciliation and to put in hand the detailed arrangements for the ceremony.

  ‘And you are sure that everyone will act according to your guidance?’

  ‘Yes. Just as I am sure that you will. Now ready yourself. I must take my place behind the jali screen.’ With a final reassuring smile and a pat on his shoulder, Hamida left the room. He had only time to look at himself briefly in the mirror and adjust the knotting of his green silk sash before the trumpets sounded. Heart thumping, he made his way towards the doors which two tall green-turbaned guards threw open for him. As he entered, he saw his father seated on his high-backed gilded throne, surrounded by his courtiers. He was dressed completely in scarlet brocade, save for his white sash and his white ceremonial turban with its two peacock’s feathers held in place by four large rubies. His grandfather’s sword Alamgir was at his side, and as Salim came nearer he saw that his father was wearing their ancestor Timur’s ring with its snarling tiger.

  When Salim was within a few feet of his father and preparing to make his low obeisance, Akbar suddenly rose and stepped down from his throne to embrace him. After some moments, he released him and turned to his courtiers.

  ‘I call upon you to witness that my beloved elder son and I are reconciled. All our past disagreements are forgotten. See, I present him with this my ceremonial turban as a token of our reunion. Henceforth whoever acts against one of us will need to fear both.’ As he spoke, Akbar removed his turban and placed it on his son’s head.

  Tears welled in Salim’s eyes. ‘I promise to honour you in all ways and to be loyal in my obedience to your every command.’

  However, a quarter of an hour later, as Salim left the audience chamber, some of the euphoria had already begun to dissipate within him. Had his father’s embrace been any more than an empty piece of theatre? Could he recall any warmth in Akbar’s tone of voice or facial expression as he had gone on to recount the initial duties, none of great significance, which Salim would be required to perform on his behalf? Would it all really be so simple?

  Chapter 28

  Fathers and Sons

  ‘Ride hard, Khusrau. You can beat him,’ Salim shouted across the parade ground below the Agra fort. His eldest son, mounted on an agile black pony, was swerving the animal in and out of a series of spears thrust into the hard ground. He was just behind another young man on a roan horse racing through a parallel set of spears to his left. Both were well clear of a third youth on Khusrau’s right, who had already failed to negotiate one pair of spears and had to wheel his pony to try again. Khusrau had just succeeded in getting his pony’s neck ahead when a minute later he crossed the finishing line, head bent low and dust billowing in his wake.

  How his son had changed over the two years that Salim had spent at Allahabad and elsewhere, away from Akbar’s court. When he had left, Khusrau had still been a boy. Now he was a young man of seventeen. Salim regretted more than ever that he had departed in such total secrecy that he had not felt able to take even Khusrau or Parvez with him without risking jeopardising his plans. It had been even less possible to contemplate taking young Khurram, now nearly thirteen. Since his birth he had spent most of his days with his grandfather and usually slept in Akbar’s apartments at night. Even now they were standing together ten yards away. Both were vigorously applauding Khusrau, who had dismounted and was striding lithe and full of youthful strength towards Akbar who was holding a riding crop with a jewel-encrusted handle ready to present to his eldest grandson as his prize for his victory.

  What a picture of familial harmony it looked, thought Salim. He had been absent from the family group for too long. Walking quickly, he reached his father and his two sons just as Khusrau took the riding crop from Akbar’s outstretched hands. ‘Well done, Khusrau. You have the same skill as a horseman that I had in my youth,’ Akbar was saying. Then, after what Salim thought was a meaningful glance at him, he continued, ‘I pray that you retain it, together with those other fine attributes that your tutors tell me you possess. Never let them be fuddled by debilitating addictions or lusts as other members of our family have.’

  ‘I assure you I will not,’ replied Khusrau, looking directly at his grandfather. Salim realised he had neither possessed nor received any
encouragement from Akbar to develop such outward assurance and confidence when he was Khusrau’s age.

  ‘You did indeed ride well, Khusrau. I too congratulate you,’ Salim spoke for the first time.

  ‘Thank you, Father. It is a skill I’ve much improved in the time you’ve been away.’

  ‘Khusrau and Khurram, would you like to accompany me to view my war elephants?’ asked Akbar. ‘I’ve some fine beasts and I know you, Khusrau, have been building up an excellent stable of your own of young elephants collected from across the empire. Perhaps you’ll learn something from the training methods my mahouts use.’

  Both Salim’s sons nodded enthusiastically and followed their grandfather, who had already turned on his heel and was heading for the stables. Resisting the childish temptation to shout that he had better beasts than any of them, Salim watched three of his four closest male relations walk away from him. His father, he was almost sure, had deliberately excluded him. But had his sons, and in particular Khusrau, realised what Akbar was about and colluded with him?

  ‘What? Are you sure you are correct about what you overheard?’ Salim almost shouted at Suleiman Beg in his apartments two months later.

  ‘Yes. I’d just finished bathing in one of the hammans reserved for commanders to use after parade ground exercises. I was dressing in one of the side rooms when I heard two officers come in. I couldn’t see them from where I was, nor, obviously, could they see me. But despite the splashing of the water in the channels as they bathed, I heard their words clearly enough. The first asked, “Have you heard that some of His Majesty’s courtiers are urging him to appoint Khusrau as his heir instead of either Daniyal or Salim?” and the second replied, “No, but I can see merits in the idea. Daniyal’s a useless drunk and Salim lacks the self-discipline not to relapse at any moment.”’