‘So what will you do?’
‘Everything I can to make sure my elephant wins. Send for Suraj and Basu, my best mahouts. We still have a few hours to prepare.’
News of the elephant fight spread quickly and as the time drew near excited spectators crowded the wide, hard-baked riverbank beneath the Agra fort. The area where the fight was to take place – an enclosure two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide – had been created by piling jute sacks of earth one on top of the other to the height of a man’s shoulder, leaving a gap on the west and east sides for the elephants to enter. A six-foot-high earth barrier running across width-wise divided the enclosure into two.
Salim was standing on the jharoka balcony with Khusrau and Khurram behind the low throne on which Akbar, wrapped in a fine embroidered Kashmiri wool shawl, was seated. Looking down, Salim noticed the purple tunics and cloth-of-silver turbans of Khusrau’s men among the crowds below. He could also see the red and gold clothing of some of his own attendants, including Zahed Butt, the captain of his bodyguard. He glanced at his eldest son. Khusrau was looking very confident and something he had just said to Akbar made his grandfather laugh.
The emperor raised his hand and at the signal a trumpeter high on the battlements put his six-foot-long bronze instrument to his lips and gave three short blasts – the signal for the elephants to proceed from their stables, the hati mahal, down the ramp from the fort and along the riverbank. First, to the accompaniment of kettledrums booming out from above the gatehouse, came the fifteen-foot-tall Damudar, wearing a purple velvet, silver-fringed jhool, his great legs loosely shackled with silver chains to prevent him from bolting. His mahout was seated on his neck and holding the long boathook-like metal rod used to control the animal during the fight. A second mahout was perched immediately behind. It would be his job to take over should the first man fall or be injured. Damudar’s forehead and eyes were protected by a shining steel plate that ended halfway down his trunk and his tusks were painted gold except for the tips, which were scarlet. As Damudar emerged from the fort and made his stately way towards the fight enclosure, Khusrau’s supporters on the riverbank roared their approval.
Craning his neck, Salim could now see his own elephant – a gift from Jodh Bai’s father – walking slowly down the ramp with Suraj sitting on his neck in front of Basu. World Shaker was smaller by nearly a foot than Khusrau’s beast but his silvered tusks were longer and more curved. The Rajputs trained their elephants well and World Shaker had proved his fearlessness many times.
As soon as Damudar and World Shaker had each entered their own side of the enclosure, bags of earth were piled up behind them to close the gaps in the arena walls. While this was being done, the elephants’ jhools had been removed and the beasts were already trumpeting angrily at each other with Khusrau’s Damudar swinging his great grey head from side to side. Salim felt his blood begin to pump. Glancing at Khusrau he saw from the rapid rise and fall of his chest that he too was excited. Had he misjudged his son? Was this simply a contest between two fighting elephants to amuse the sick emperor? But watching Khusrau bend to whisper again in Akbar’s ear, Salim was sure he had understood his son’s motives correctly.
Youths were now darting between the elephants’ legs to remove their chains. They had barely scrambled from the enclosure when with a great roar Khusrau’s elephant stormed towards the central barrier and standing up on his hind legs brought his two front legs crashing down. Then he reared up again as if he couldn’t wait to get at World Shaker who, guided by Suraj’s gentle taps, was withdrawing slowly backwards from his own side of the barrier. Salim saw Khusrau’s grin of triumph as Damudar continued to smash his way through.
Moments later, with his two riders clinging to his neck, the bellowing Damudar trampled with his great pillar-like legs the remains of the barrier and charged forward into World Shaker’s half of the arena, kicking earth and dust up into the air as he went. Suraj was still holding World Shaker back, exactly as he and Salim had planned he should, to lure his opponent into making a rush attack. You could never be sure of anything in an elephant fight but it should be the right tactic, Salim thought to himself. World Shaker was smaller and nimbler than Khusrau’s elephant.
As Damudar crashed forward, trunk high in the air and tusk tips horizontal, towards World Shaker, Salim wondered whether Suraj had left it too late. But at the very last moment, just as Damudar seemed about to smash into them, with a shouted command and a tap of his bar on the elephant’s right shoulder Suraj made World Shaker step quickly to one side, avoiding Damudar’s onrush. At the same time the elephant tossed up his head so that his tusks, filed to fine sharp points, inflicted a jagged gash to Damudar’s left side as he passed. Blood at once began seeping from the wound. As Damudar stumbled off, trumpeting in pain, Suraj urged World Shaker in pursuit. He caught up with Damudar close to the earth bags enclosing the arena. There Damudar’s driver, still struggling to bring his panicked and wounded beast back under full control, somehow managed to swing him round to confront World Shaker.
Urged on by their drivers and the shouts of the crowd, the two elephants rose up repeatedly on their hind legs, each seeking a way to gore the other. Within moments World Shaker had succeeded in slashing open Damudar’s trunk just beneath his steel head armour. Then, as Damudar staggered back, he followed up by thrusting one of his tusks deep into his opponent’s right shoulder. Khusrau was no longer looking so confident. World Shaker’s victory couldn’t be long delayed, Salim thought, but as the maddened elephants closed again Damudar’s driver lunged forward with his metal pole. He looked as if he intended to strike his elephant but suddenly, grabbing hold of a leather strap round Damudar’s neck, he leaned right out and with a quick movement hooked the curved end of his rod round Suraj’s leg. Pulled off balance, Suraj teetered for a moment then fell, arms flailing, to the ground. From where he was standing Salim couldn’t quite see what had happened to him but he heard the shocked gasp that a moment or two later rose up from the crowd.
‘Stop the fight!’ Akbar ordered.
Within moments, attendants were throwing lit fire crackers into the enclosure to frighten the elephants and drive them apart. The noisy, fizzing, smoking devices were too much for Damudar who, with his two riders still clinging to his neck, stampeded and burst right through the wall of earth-filled sacks. Trampling three spectators who were not quick enough to leap out of the way, the terrified animal bolted along the riverbank, scattering further onlookers as he ran, and then, swerving, plunged into the Jumna where he came to a halt nearly in midstream, staining the water red with his blood.
Meanwhile Basu had slid forward to take Suraj’s place on World Shaker and had managed, despite the noise and the chaos, to soothe the elephant and even to slip a cotton blindfold over his eyes to quieten him further. In the very middle of the enclosure lay the mangled heap that had been Suraj. His head had been crushed to a bloody pulp by an elephant’s foot and his intestines were spilled on the ground. Salim turned to his eldest son, shouting, ‘Your driver realised my elephant was about to win so he cheated by attacking my mahout, causing the needless death of a brave man.’
‘What happened was an accident.’ Khusrau’s face was flushed and his eyes avoided Salim’s.
‘You know that’s not true. Since your elephant fled the arena, in the name of my dead driver I claim the victory.’
‘There was no victor. It was a draw. Grandfather . . .’ Khusrau turned to appeal to Akbar but the emperor wasn’t attending to them. He was on his feet, supported by an attendant on either side, and peering intently over the edge of the balcony. Wondering what was claiming his father’s attention, Salim stepped forward as well. The crowds below were milling around, craning to watch what remained of Suraj being gathered from the ground and carried away on a rough stretcher to await his Rajput funeral rites. But then Salim heard angry shouting and saw that scuffles were breaking out between his men and Khusrau’s. As he watched, one of Khusrau’s attendants pulled
a dagger from his belt and slashed one of his own retainers across the face with it. Immediately more men piled into the fray on both sides, fists and weapons flying. Nearby, another group of his followers were struggling with some of Khusrau’s men in the shallows of the river, throwing punches and attempting to push each other’s heads beneath the water.
‘Salim. Khusrau. How dare your men brawl like this in front of me! Have you no authority over them? You should both be ashamed.’ Akbar was shaking with fury. ‘Khurram, it seems that you are the only one I can trust. Go to the captain of the guard and order him to stop this outrage at once. Any man who drew a weapon on another is to be arrested and flogged.’
‘Yes, Grandfather,’ said Khurram, running to obey.
‘As for you, Salim and Khusrau, go. The sight of you wearies me.’ Akbar sat down again and passed a hand over his eyes.
Khusrau hurried away but Salim hesitated. He wanted to justify himself but there was no point. Whatever he said or did would only confirm his father’s opinion of him. With a backward glance at Akbar, who gave him no encouragement to remain, Salim walked slowly from the balcony. At least Khusrau had incurred an equal share of Akbar’s displeasure, he consoled himself, but then another thought struck him. What was it that Akbar had said to Khurram? ‘You are the only one I can trust . . .’
Perhaps those words carried a deeper meaning than either he or Khusrau realised. What would Akbar say to the boy about the day’s events when they were alone? That the naked rivalry between Salim and Khusrau showed that neither was fit to rule?
Chapter 29
Seizer of the World
‘My qorchi woke me with the news that my father has been taken ill. What is wrong?’ Salim asked early one morning in October 1605.
‘His Majesty was seized with violent stomach cramps about three hours ago and then began vomiting,’ said Akbar’s chief hakim, an elderly, dignified-looking man dressed almost entirely in grey named Ahmed Malik. Lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder at the guards on duty outside Akbar’s bedchamber, the doctor added, ‘My first thought was that he had been poisoned.’
‘Poisoned? That’s impossible. Everything my father eats is tasted three times and each dish sealed by the mir bahawal, the master of the kitchen, and escorted to his table by guards . . . even the Ganges water he is so fond of is checked again and again.’
‘Ways can always be found. Remember how your great-grandfather nearly died at the hands of a poisoner here in Agra. It was my grandfather Abdul-Malik who treated him. But I now believe my suspicions were groundless. I ordered some of the vomit to be fed at once to pariah dogs but not one has shown any ill effects. Also, your father’s symptoms are not developing as they would if he had been poisoned.’
‘What is it then? The same stomach illness that afflicted him a few months ago?’
‘Very probably, though I can’t be sure yet. Whatever the malady is, it is racking your father with great virulence. My colleagues and I are doing everything we can to discover the cause, I promise you, Highness.’
‘I am sure you are. May I see the emperor?’
‘He is in great pain and has asked not to be disturbed.’
‘Can’t you relieve his suffering?’
‘Of course. I offered him opium but he refused it. He says there are important issues he must decide and that to do so he must keep his mind absolutely clear, even if it costs him pain.’
Salim’s eyes widened as he took in the significance of the doctor’s words. There was only one reason why Akbar would have said such a thing – the choice of successor. He must think he was dying . . .
‘Hakim, I know how much faith my father has in you. Save him.’
‘I will do my best, Highness, but I must be honest. He is weaker than I have ever seen him. His pulse is faint and ragged, and I suspect he has been suffering far longer and far more than he admits from his stomach problems. Only the severity of tonight’s attack induced him to summon me.’
‘Hakim . . .’ Salim began; then, hearing footsteps, broke off. Khusrau was running down the corridor towards them.
‘I have just heard the news. How is my grandfather?’ Khusrau’s flushed face looked to Salim’s cynical eyes more excited than anxious.
‘He is gravely ill,’ he replied shortly. ‘Ahmed Malik will tell you the details. But don’t let your questions detain him too long from your grandfather’s bedside.’
He walked slowly away down the dimly lit corridor as he tried to collect his thoughts. A few torches still burned in their sconces but as he looked through an open casement a pale band of light on the horizon showed dawn was near. Turning a corner, he saw Suleiman Beg waiting for him.
‘Well?’ his milk-brother asked.
Salim slowly shook his head. ‘I think the hakim believes my father is dying, though he didn’t use those words. So, I think, does my father. But it seems incredible. I’ve thought about his death so many times – of what it would mean for my future. But I never believed the moment would come, never mind considered how I’d feel.’
Suleiman Beg stepped closer and put his hands on Salim’s shoulders. ‘You must push your feelings aside, complex as I’m sure they must be. News of the emperor’s illness is already spreading and Khusrau’s men are swaggering about the Agra fort as if they already own it. The talk everywhere is about who the emperor will name as his heir.’
‘That’s for my father to decide.’
‘Of course. But none of us can predict what’s going to happen. Forgive me, but the emperor might die before he has a chance to choose a successor . . . and even if he nominates you, Khusrau’s men may rise in rebellion. You must prepare. The stronger you are, the quicker you can strike if you have to.’
‘You’re a good friend to me and are right as always, Suleiman Beg. What do you suggest I do?’
‘Let me summon those commanders we know to be loyal to you to the capital with their troops.’
‘Very well. But tell them to come quietly, without ostentation. I must do nothing to provoke suspicion or indeed cause anxiety to my father.’
Akbar’s face looked wan and his hands lay claw-like on the green silk coverlet as his attendants gently set down the chair on which they had carried him from his apartments to his private audience chamber. It was two days since he had fallen ill again and the hakims had still been unable to prevent him from passing and vomiting blood, although there had been some reduction in its frequency, probably because he had taken no nourishment. No wonder his skin looked almost transparent. It was hard to believe the frail old man before them had once run jubilantly round the battlements of the Agra fort, a youth clutched beneath each muscular arm.
Akbar’s attendants were arranging a bolster behind his back. Salim saw his father wince with pain but after taking a moment to master himself the emperor began to speak. ‘I asked you here, my loyal counsellors – my ichkis as my father and grandfather would have called you – to help me take perhaps the most important decision of my reign.’ Akbar’s voice was low but authoritative as ever. ‘My illness is no secret. I will probably die soon. That is unimportant. What matters is that I leave my empire – the Moghul empire – in safe hands.’ Salim noticed Khusrau, resplendent in his favourite silver and purple, edge a little further forward at his grandfather’s words.
‘I would have made my decision long ago but I wasn’t sure whether to chose my eldest son Salim or my eldest grandson Khusrau. Convinced I still had more years to live, I decided to wait and to observe them both before judging which is better fitted to rule. But I no longer have the luxury of time. The choice will be mine alone, but before I make it I wish to hear your views. You are my advisers. Speak.’
Salim caught his breath. In the next few minutes, the course of his future life would be decided. Shaikh Salim Chishti’s words echoed in his brain – ‘You will be emperor’ – but much had happened since that warm dark night when he had run out of the palace of Fatehpur Sikri to ask for the Sufi’s help. Despite h
is efforts he had never fully won his father’s admiration – or even his attention for long – and had allowed desperation and ambition to lure him into rash acts. He was sure Akbar had never forgiven Abul Fazl’s murder even if they were now formally reconciled.
Man Singh of Amber, Khusrau’s maternal uncle, stepped forward. ‘Majesty, you ask our views and I will give you mine. I favour Prince Khusrau. He is young, with many years still ahead of him. Much as I respect my brother-in-law Prince Salim, he is approaching his middle years. He should advise and guide his son, not sit upon the throne himself.’ As he finished, Man Singh gave a little shake of his head as if what he had just said weighed heavily upon him and had not been easy. What hypocrisy, thought Salim. It was obviously in Man Singh’s interests for his nephew to become the new emperor.
‘I agree,’ said Aziz Koka, one of Akbar’s youngest commanders. Salim’s lip curled. It was common knowledge that Khusrau had promised to make him his khan-i-khanan when he became emperor. ‘We need a young and vigorous leader to take us to yet further glories,’ the man added portentously.
Silence fell in the chamber and Salim saw the courtiers exchange glances. Then Hassan Amal, whose father had ridden as a youth with Babur from Kabul stepped forward.
‘No!’ Although he must have been at least ten years older than Akbar, his voice was firm and resolute. ‘Many times in our history brother has challenged brother for the throne, but it has never been the way of the old Moghul clans to set aside the father in favour of the son. The natural – indeed the only – successor to our great emperor must be Prince Salim. I believe I speak not only for myself but for many others gathered here who have been worried by the recent rivalry between the factions supporting the two princes. It is unseemly and it is dangerous. I am old enough to remember the days before we were secure in Hindustan – when our future here hung in the balance. Today we are undisputed masters of a great empire and must not put that at risk by breaking with custom. Justice and prudence demand that Prince Salim, the Emperor Akbar’s eldest and only surviving son, succeeds to the throne. Like all of us he has made mistakes, but equally, experience has taught him many lessons. He will, I am sure, make a worthy emperor.’
Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World Page 39