Ruler of the World eotm-3

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Greetings, Highness. Please follow me to where we will eat.’

  Salim followed his host through the courtyard, the walls of which were covered with tiles painted with cream and mauve flowers, and down a passage leading into a second, smaller courtyard spread with rugs. A silk canopy had been erected against one wall, beneath which was a low divan piled with cushions. As Salim seated himself Ghiyas Beg clapped his hands and at once servants appeared, some bringing water for Salim to rinse his hands while others spread a white damask cloth over which they sprinkled dried rose petals.

  ‘I have had dishes prepared from my Persian homeland. I hope you will like them,’ Ghiyas Beg said.

  The food was some of the most delicious Salim had ever eaten. Pheasants simmered in a pomegranate sauce, lamb stuffed with apricots and pistachios, rice spiced with long golden strands of saffron and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds bright as rubies, hot wafer-thin bread to dip into pastes of smoked and pounded aubergines and chickpeas. Ghiyas Beg’s attendants kept his glass filled with wine from the Khwaja Khawan Said region of Kabul, celebrated for its fire and flavour.

  Salim noticed that the treasurer himself ate and drank sparingly and said little except to acknowledge Salim’s frequent compliments. But when the dishes had been cleared away and grapes, musk melons and silvered almonds laid before them, Ghiyas Beg said, ‘Highness, I have a favour to request. May I present my wife to you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Salim replied, realising how great a compliment this was to their friendship. Usually only male relations met the women of the household. He had been wondering whether Ghiyas Beg’s wife and daughter had been watching through the fretted wooden screen he could see high in the wall opposite where he was sitting.

  ‘You are gracious, Highness.’ Ghiyas Beg whispered to an attendant, who hastened away. A few minutes later, a tall slight figure entered the courtyard through an arched doorway. She was veiled, but above the gauzy material Salim saw a pair of fine eyes and a wide, smooth forehead. She was obviously younger than Ghiyas Beg who, as she touched her hand to her breast and briefly bowed her head, said, ‘Highness, this is Asmat, my wife.’

  ‘I thank you for your hospitality, Asmat. I have not tasted better food since coming to Kabul.’

  ‘You do us great honour, Highness. Many years ago your father the emperor saved our family from poverty, perhaps worse. I am glad to repay even a tiny portion of the debt we owe you.’ She spoke court Persian as elegantly as her husband, in a voice both musical and low.

  ‘My father acquired a good and loyal servant when he sent your husband here. There is no debt.’

  Asmat looked towards her husband. ‘Highness, we have another request. May our daughter Mehrunissa dance for you? Her teachers, who have trained her in the Persian style, say that she is not unskilled.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Salim lay back against the cushions and took another sip of the dark red wine. He would be intrigued to see this girl who had been abandoned beneath a tree to the jackals and the elements.

  A trio of musicians — two drummers and a flautist — entered the courtyard. The drummers at once struck up a compelling rhythm, and as the piper put his instrument to his lips a languorous melody issued from it. Then came a tinkling of bells keeping perfect time with the musicians and Mehrunissa ran into the courtyard. Like her mother she was veiled but above the veil her eyes were as large and lustrous as Asmat’s. She was wearing a loose robe of blue silk the colour of a kingfisher’s wing. As she raised her arms and began to revolve, Salim saw that in each hand she was holding a golden ring hung with tiny silver bells.

  For a moment a vision of the last woman to dance before him — Anarkali — swam before him, bringing with it the sense of shame and regret her memory still conjured. But Mehrunissa’s dance was unlike anything Salim had ever seen in Hindustan, slow, graceful and controlled. Every gesture of her slender hands and fingers, the way she held her head, the stately sway of her body beneath the blue silk, the beat of her henna-painted feet on the ground, compelled attention. Salim leaned forward as the music grew louder. Mehrunissa flung back her head as if filled with the joy of the dance and then quite suddenly the music ceased and she was kneeling decorously at his feet.

  ‘That is one of the shah’s favourite dances, celebrating the coming of spring,’ said Ghiyas Beg, face soft with pride.

  ‘You are as gifted a dancer as your father said. Please rise.’

  Mehrunissa got gracefully to her feet, but as she reached to push back a stray lock of shining black hair she caught a corner of her veil and it fell away, exposing her full mouth, a small straight nose and the soft curve of her cheeks. For a moment she looked straight into Salim’s eyes before quickly refastening her veil.

  ‘You only saw her for a few moments.’

  ‘It was enough, Suleiman Beg.’

  ‘Perhaps you haven’t had a woman for a while.’

  Salim glared at his milk-brother. Since leaving Lahore and his wives and haram, the memory of Anarkali’s tumbling golden hair and voluptuous body — all that beauty to which he had brought such ruin — had curbed his desire, it was true, but his abstinence had certainly not been total and wasn’t why he felt like this.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not because for some unfathomable reason you like her father? You think her mind might be like his and her body female perfection.’ Suleiman Beg smiled and cracked a walnut between his teeth, flinging the shell out of the open casement in Salim’s apartments overlooking the courtyard. ‘What’s really so special about her?’

  ‘Everything. The way she moved — her grace. She was like a queen.’

  ‘Big breasts?’

  ‘She’s not a whore from the bazaars.’

  ‘Then I repeat my question because I just don’t understand. From what you say, a veiled woman did a brief dance for you and all of a sudden your loins are on fire. .’

  ‘I saw her face. Suleiman Beg, it reminds me of how my grandmother speaks of Humayun’s feelings when he first saw her. There was something about it. . I can’t get her out of my mind.’

  ‘I thought you said she was veiled.’

  ‘For a moment her veil slipped.’

  ‘That was clever of her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s the daughter of a petty official living in an outpost of your empire.’ Suleiman Beg spat a tough piece of nut on to the floor but Salim knew it was Kabul he’d really like to spit on. Suleiman Beg was bored here and couldn’t wait to return to Hindustan. ‘That was her chance to catch your eye. Much better to be an imperial concubine than left to fester here.’

  Perhaps Suleiman Beg was right, Salim thought. In his mind’s eye he recaptured that moment when her veil had slipped. Had it been by design? And had she delayed raising it again just long enough for him to see her face? If so, then all to the good. It meant she wanted him too. He stood up. ‘I don’t desire her merely as a concubine. I wish her to be my wife.’

  Dusk was falling when an attendant brought Salim word that Ghiyas Beg had come to the citadel. As soon as the Persian was shown into his apartment, Salim said eagerly, ‘Ghiyas Beg, I summoned you here not as your prince but — or so I hope — as your future son-in-law. I want to marry your daughter. Give me Mehrunissa and I will make her first among my wives and first in my heart.’

  Ghiyas Beg’s eyes widened. Instead of the smiles Salim had anticipated, he looked agitated.

  ‘What is it, Ghiyas Beg?’

  ‘Highness, what you ask is impossible.’

  ‘I don’t understand. . I thought you would welcome my offer.’

  ‘I do, Highness. It is a great honour, an unimaginable honour. But I must repeat what I said. It is out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’ Without realising what he was doing Salim stepped forward and grabbed Ghiyas Beg’s thin arm above the elbow.

  ‘My daughter is already promised.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘To one of your father’s commanders in Bengal, Sher Afg
han. As a man of honour, I cannot break off their betrothal. I am truly sorry, Highness.’

  Chapter 26

  Oblivion

  ‘Highness, a letter has arrived for you from Lahore.’

  Salim’s qorchi handed him a green leather pouch secured by a twist of gold wire from which the imperial seal was dangling. Inside, Salim found a thick piece of paper folded into four and opened it to see Abul Fazl’s familiar handwriting — lines and lines of it. As usual, it was only towards the bottom of the page after all the empty airy courtesies that Salim found the real meat of what his father’s chronicler had to say:

  His gracious Majesty the emperor, in his great and fathomless mercy commands you to return immediately to Lahore where he has fresh tasks he wishes you to undertake. He asks me to say that he hopes that from this time forward your footsteps will return to the path of righteousness and you will become a dutiful son who will never again deviate in the manner that has so distressed and disappointed him

  .

  Salim handed the letter to Suleiman Beg, who grinned broadly as he read it. ‘I was afraid we might be stuck here for years.’

  ‘It’s typical that the style and even the seals are Abul Fazl’s and not my father’s. Nevertheless, I didn’t expect to be recalled after only eight months. I’m surprised.’

  ‘You might look more cheerful about it. You’re not still obsessed with that Persian girl, are you? When you get back to your wives and haram you’ll realise she was no more than a passing fancy because you were bored.’

  Salim considered. How did he really feel? His relationship — friendship even — with Ghiyas Beg had made his stay in Kabul much less irksome than it might have been, and after seeing Mehrunissa she had occupied his mind as much as thoughts of returning to court. But since Ghiyas Beg’s rejection of his offer of marriage to her a constraint had inevitably sprung up between them. Salim’s visits to the Persian’s house had grown less frequent and of course he had not seen Mehrunissa again. He had, however, discovered that she was not due to wed Sher Afghan until the following year. Perhaps back in Lahore he could persuade his father to use his influence with Ghiyas Beg. If the emperor himself commanded Mehrunissa’s betrothal to be broken off, Ghiyas Beg as a loyal subject could only obey. .

  The long journey back down through the passes from Kabul, across the Indus and the other mighty rivers of the Punjab, had gone swiftly and well, and unencumbered by a slow baggage train Salim had reached Lahore in only six weeks. At each passing mile his spirits had risen with the heat of the plains around him. However, as he stood in Akbar’s private apartments, alone before his father for the first time since his banishment, Salim felt himself trembling with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

  ‘I am glad to see you safely returned from Kabul.’ Akbar spoke first, his face inscrutable. ‘I regret that we parted in anger but you left me no choice but to punish you. I hope that during your absence you reflected on the duty that a son owes to his father and that in future you will behave accordingly.’

  What about the duty a father owes to his son, thought Salim, but all he said was, ‘I know what is due to you and I am grateful that you have forgiven me my past errors and recalled me to the court.’

  ‘Your errors were grave. I had intended you to stay longer in Kabul, but your grandmother persuaded me to send for you.’ Akbar’s tone was still stiff.

  ‘Father, Abul Fazl’s letter mentioned you had further tasks for me. I am eager to serve you. . I. .’

  ‘In due course,’ Akbar interrupted him. ‘You acquitted yourself well in Kabul — Abul Fazl tells me your reports were thorough and Saif Khan confirmed your good behaviour — but I have not decided what I wish you to do next.’

  So Saif Khan had indeed been spying on him. Salim persisted, ‘A governorship perhaps, like Murad?’

  ‘There is no need for haste. I wish to see whether you maintain your good conduct, and I will tell you my decision about any appointment if and when the time comes.’

  Salim tried not to show his disappointment but knew it must be written on his face. He had been hoping his return could mark a new beginning in his relationship with his father, but yet again it seemed he would have to be patient. Perhaps his grandmother would again use her influence on his behalf as she had to hasten his return. However, even if this was not the ideal time, there was something else he could not delay in asking Akbar, and he must ask in person.

  ‘Father, may I request a favour?’

  ‘What is it?’ Akbar looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘I wish to take a further wife.’

  ‘Who?’ Akbar’s expression was now one of absolute astonishment.

  ‘The daughter of Ghiyas Beg, your treasurer in Kabul,’ Salim said, and before Akbar could respond continued, ‘but there is a difficulty. She is already promised to one of your commanders in Bengal, Sher Afghan, and Ghiyas Beg believes it would be dishonourable to go back on the arrangement. But if you intervened, Ghiyas Beg and Sher Afghan would have to obey you and. .’

  ‘Enough! I had hoped that your months in exile would have taught you some sense, but I see I was wrong. It is bad enough that you want to marry a woman of obscure family — an alliance that can bring no possible benefit to our dynasty — but it beggars belief that you can then ask me to interfere in the lives of my subjects to bring it to pass.’

  ‘It’s not a passing whim. Her name is Mehrunissa. I can’t get her from my mind.’

  ‘You will have to. I will not disrupt the marriage plans of Sher Afghan, a loyal, brave fighter, so you can satisfy your insatiable lusts.’

  ‘It’s not lust. .’

  ‘Really? It seems to me you have developed a taste for other men’s women.’ Akbar’s tone was brutal and his reference to Anarkali stung. Salim swallowed. What could he say in his defence that Akbar would believe? If he compared his passion to Humayun’s on first seeing Hamida, as he had so often done in his own mind, it would only enrage his father.

  After a moment’s painful silence Akbar said wearily, ‘Leave me. You make me despair. I had hoped our reunion would be happier but I can see you have not conquered your vices. You still need to learn self-control. Young as he is, your son Khurram understands the difference between right and wrong better than you.’

  As Salim walked swiftly from his father’s apartments tears of anger and hurt pricked his eyelids. Akbar never tried to understand him and seemingly never would. His father did, however, choose his words carefully for their effect. Was his reference to Khurram a hint that his own son was better qualified to rule than he was? Surely not. . however well omened his birth, Khurram was no more than a precocious child.

  Salim opened the painted wooden box, took out a glass jar and held it up to the light with hands that were not quite steady. Good. There were enough opium pellets to last him until morning. Flipping up the jar’s silver lid, Salim tipped two pellets into a goblet then poured in some rosewater. He smiled as he watched the pellets dissolve, unleashing their smoky grey trail until only a few stubborn granules remained. He swirled the water with his index finger then raised the goblet to his lips. After a few minutes, feeling the opium begin to do its wonderful work, he took another few swallows of the strong red wine he had been drinking all day.

  That felt even better. Salim lay back on a silk-covered mattress by the balustrade enclosing the balcony of his apartments. The sounds of horses’ hooves and men’s voices rising from the courtyard below seemed to come from farther and farther away as he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the delicious languor that in recent weeks had become increasingly necessary to his well-being. It was an antidote both to his father’s cold equivocation whenever he asked about an appointment and to his sons’ discomfort and embarrassment whenever he broached any topic other than the most banal with them. They had changed towards him while he had been away. Though they were unfailingly polite, he sensed no warmth or intimacy.

  Neither his mother Hirabai nor his grandmother Hamida had had any
thing constructive to offer either. His mother had voiced only contempt for Akbar and the Moghuls in general. Hamida, however sympathetic and loving her tone, had only had kind words of consolation and the advice to wait. She had reiterated how much his affair with Anarkali had hurt Akbar and how much he detested the thought that it would be the subject of common gossip among the people and damage the image they had of him as all-powerful. Consequently she had had great difficulty in securing Akbar’s agreement to his return from banishment so she could do no more for the present.

  The opium and the wine relaxed Salim’s mind and body. They blunted painful thoughts, soothed his aching disappointments and transported him to places where nothing seemed to matter much. He felt a small insect crawl over his naked chest but the effort it would require to crush it seemed too great. Live, little creature, whatever you are, he thought and laughed softly. He readjusted his position. The soft, warm silk of the mattress felt wonderful — like the skin of a woman. Perhaps later he would go to the haram and make love to Man Bai or Jodh Bai, though that also seemed too much effort, particularly since they too had scarcely seemed wholehearted in their welcome to him. In fact, when he thought about it he realised he hadn’t seen any of his wives or indeed his sons for days. But why should he when he was so content just lying here? For a second, Mehrunissa’s striking face was before him. But Suleiman Beg was probably right. She was just another woman. .

  Still, it would be nice to have some company here, someone to share the shadowy, delightful twilight that was enveloping him. Suleiman Beg stubbornly refused his every invitation to join him. Even at the start when he’d begun experimenting with just a pellet or two, his milk-brother would not be tempted. Indeed, he’d even shown his disapproval. . Perhaps he should invite his half-brothers Daniyal and Murad? Murad had returned to Lahore a month ago, recalled by Akbar from his governorship for having had the envoy of an important vassal flogged for showing disrespect.