Ruler of the World

Chapter 19

‘You are fifteen years old. It is time you took your first wife.’ Before Salim could reply, Akbar strode off to inspect the target — a log of wood on which three large clay jars had been placed on the parade ground beneath the royal palace in Lahore — at which he had just fired his musket. Even from three hundred yards away, Salim could see that his father had shattered the middle jar. Since their triumphant return from Kashmir three months ago Akbar had several times invited him hunting, hawking or to musketry practice.

Salim hurried after him. ‘Father, what did you say?’

‘That the time has come for you to marry. As well as helping to strengthen our dynasty it will be a celebration of our great victory in Kashmir.’ Akbar smiled. Salim knew that not even Akbar had thought Kashmir would fall into his hands quite so easily. Confronted by the reality that the mountains encircling his kingdom were no barrier against his determined Moghul enemy, its ruler had rushed to sue for peace. In his mind’s eye, Salim again saw the Sultan of Kashmir prostrating himself at his father’s feet outside Akbar’s scarlet command tent then standing meekly while the khutba was read in the name of the Moghul emperor. Akbar had granted the sultan life and liberty but from now on Kashmir would be firmly under Moghul control. What was more his father — never content with his victories or his empire’s boundaries — was already readying his forces for his invasion of Sind.

‘But who am I to marry?’

‘After consulting with my counsellors I have selected your cousin, Man Bai. Her father Bhagwan Das, Raja of Amber, has already given his consent.’

Salim stared at his father. Man Bai was his first cousin, the daughter of his mother’s brother. He had only seen her once when they had both been children and all he could remember was a quiet, skinny, long-legged little girl with her hair bound in plaits.

‘You look surprised. I thought you would be pleased to cross this threshold into manhood. I hear that you are not averse to visiting the girls in the bazaar.’

Salim flushed. He had thought he was being discreet. On the return march from Kashmir, he and his milk-brother Suleiman Beg had slipped out from the imperial quarters to find willing girls among the camp followers. He had lost his virginity one night to a cinnamon-scented Turkish woman while encamped on a mountain pass with cold winds battering the hide walls of her tent — not that he would have noticed had the tent blown away. Back in Lahore, the two youths had taken to slipping out to the town at night. There was a particular inn where Geeta, a plump dancing girl with high, round breasts, had laughingly been instructing him further in the ways of love while Suleiman Beg had been finding delight in the arms of her sister. Afterwards, sneaking back into the palace, they tried to outdo each other with exaggerated tales of their prowess. But tumbling a girl in the bazaar was very different from taking a wife.

‘I am surprised. I hadn’t thought of marriage at all. .’

‘Young though you are, you should have. Marrying into the houses of the most noble of our vassals, as I did, tightens our grip on our empire as surely as conquest. Such alliances give the powerful families an even greater stake in our success. They ensure that in times of trouble they will support us, not because they love us but because it is to their advantage.’ Akbar paused, eyes searching Salim’s face. He had seldom spoken to his son so earnestly. ‘Why do you think there are so few uprisings against us and every year we grow yet richer? Why do you think that the ulama no longer dare to bleat openly about my policies of religious tolerance or my Hindu wives or my introduction of the Din-i-Ilahi, the Divine Faith? My position is unassailable and that is in good part because of the alliances I have made through marriage. Understand this, Salim. This is not about your wishes nor about pleasure. You can build yourself a haram of concubines for that. It is about duty. I have informed your mother of my decision.’

His father’s view of marriage was a joyless one, devoid of human emotion, Salim thought, so unlike that of his grandmother who often told him of the mutual love and support she had shared with Humayun. Perhaps his father’s loveless marriage to his own mother was at the root of his coldness. It had been his first union and it may have made him even more reluctant to give himself fully to succeeding brides than his self-contained self-confident nature made him already. Certainly he never spoke of any of them with great affection, being seemingly keener to list the alliances they had brought and how they had contributed to his own and the empire’s glory.

Anyway, Hirabai would surely be pleased by his marriage. Any child he had by Man Bai — and a son might well be a future Moghul emperor — would be more Rajput than Moghul. But then he remembered what she had said of her brother Bhagwan Das, Man Bai’s father: ‘People can always be bought. .’ As so often, his mind became clouded with doubt and uncertainty, though he knew he should be pleased that his father had arranged such an important dynastic match for him. He tried to look grateful — which in his heart he was.

‘When will the wedding take place?’

‘In about eight weeks’ time when your bride arrives from Amber.’ Akbar smiled. ‘That will also give time for guests to travel here from all over the empire and for others to send gifts. I intend that this will be one of the most magnificent spectacles ever witnessed in Lahore and have already been planning it with Abul Fazl. The festivities will last for a month with processions, camel races, polo matches and elephant fights, and every night feasting and fireworks. Now, let us return to our target practice.’

Salim was disappointed. There was much more he would have liked to ask, but his father was already priming his musket.

Man Bai was sitting beneath her layers of gold-embroidered veils in the mansion which Akbar had had specially prepared for the entourage from Amber. Two days ago towards sunset Salim had watched the arrival of the long procession bringing his bride. First had come forty Rajput warriors mounted on cream-coloured stallions, breastplates and lance tips gleaming in the light of the dying sun. Six elephants, jewels flashing in their silver headplates, had followed, bearing in gilded howdahs on their backs the personal bodyguard sent to protect Man Bai on her journey. Then had come his bride on another even more gorgeously caparisoned elephant. Silk curtains, vivid blue as a kingfisher’s wing, draped over her gold-painted, turquoise-inlaid howdah concealed her from view. Immediately behind came her personal waiting women riding on camels, heavily veiled and further protected from the sun by white silk parasols embroidered with pearls held by attendants perched behind them. Next had trotted a further detachment of Rajput warriors, this time mounted on matching black horses. At the very end was the Moghul escort, green banners flying, that Akbar had sent to accompany them.

Salim had risen early to dress in readiness for the wedding procession to his bride’s house where the ceremony was to take place — a Hindu custom that, as a courtesy to Bhagwan Das, Akbar had decreed should be followed. To the high-pitched wail of pipes and the beating of drums, he and his father, sitting side by side in a jewelled howdah on the back of Akbar’s favourite elephant, had proceeded at a stately pace. In front had marched rows of attendants carrying trays of gifts from pearls and gems to spices, including piles of the finest saffron sent by the Sultan of Kashmir from his crocus fields.

As Shaikh Mubarak and two other mullahs began reading verses from the Koran, Salim glanced down at his hands, painted earlier that morning by his mother and her women with henna and turmeric for good luck. Somewhat to his surprise — and relief — his mother had welcomed his betrothal to her niece. Maybe the consideration that any child born of the marriage would be three-quarters Rajput had outweighed her disapproval of Man Bai’s father, Salim thought. He shifted position a little, conscious of the weight of the marriage diadem set with diamonds and pearls that Akbar himself had placed on his head.

When the mullahs had finally finished their intoning, Shaikh Mubarak turned to Man Bai beneath her glittering coverings to ask the customary question, ‘Do you give your consent to this union?’ Salim heard her muffled assent and saw the slight tilt of her head. An attendant stepped forward with a red and green enamelled ewer, and as Salim held out his hands poured rosewater over them. Then another attendant handed him a goblet of water from which to sip to confirm the union. I am a married man, Salim thought as the cool liquid ran down his throat. It seemed unreal.

As the wedding feast got under way, Salim scarcely saw the whirling Rajasthani dancing girls with their jangling anklets and gold-spangled red veils or the sinuous acrobats — muscled bodies gleaming with oil — exerting themselves to entertain him, or heard the discreet laughter of the women of the court sitting behind a carved wooden jali that enabled them to watch what was happening without being seen. Neither did he taste much of the food — roasted pheasants and peacocks adorned with their own gilded tail feathers, young lamb cooked with dried fruit and spices, and pistachio- and almond-flavoured sweetmeats. All the time he was thinking, I must remember this moment. This is when I became a man. From now on, I will have my own household and a bride as royal as my own mother. A new confidence was flowing through his veins, and, as he glanced at the small, glittering figure beside him, a surge of excitement at the thought of a new woman to discover.

Salim smiled to recall how Hamida — not his father — had tried to talk to him about the ways to please a woman. Of course, modesty forbade her to be explicit but he knew what she was saying — to be considerate and tender towards his young bride. He would be. Geeta had taught him well. He understood how reining in his own eager passion could add to the pleasure of both. He had gone to Geeta as an eager boy, newly initiated and as excited and unthinking as any stallion about to be put to stud, but she had made him a lover. . Yet though he hadn’t needed Hamida’s hints on the art of love-making, he had been glad of her instruction on the rituals of the wedding night — how next morning the bedding would be inspected to confirm that sexual intercourse had taken place and that his bride had been a virgin.

Three hours later, Salim’s attendants removed his wedding clothes and jewels in the bedchamber in the haram of the new apartments his father had given him. On the other side of the green brocade hangings his bride — bathed, scented and oiled by her own servants — was waiting for him in the marriage bed. When he was naked, one of his attendants fetched a green silk robe and draped it over him, fastening the emerald clasps at throat and chest. Then the servants withdrew. Salim hesitated a moment, looking at the brocade curtains gleaming in the soft light of the oil lamps burning in niches around the chamber. It wasn’t that he felt nervous but rather that he wanted to fix this moment in his mind. He might one day be emperor, the Rajput princess he was about to bed perhaps the mother of a future emperor. This was no quick, joyous tumble in the bazaar but perhaps another step in his own story and that of his dynasty.

But at the thought of the woman waiting for him on the other side of those curtains desire quickened, driving out such ideas. Salim pushed the hangings aside and stepped into the bedchamber. Man Bai was sitting up, the outline of her breasts clearly visible through her almost transparent robe of peach-coloured muslin. Her long thick dark hair tumbled around her shoulders and the rubies she was wearing in her ears gleamed. Around her neck was a slender gold chain also set with rubies. But what held Salim’s attention was the excited expression in those dark, long-lashed eyes and her bold, confident smile.

He had expected a shy, even bashful bride — Suleiman Beg had teased him about it, warning him not to frighten her with his brothel manners — but he could sense her anticipation. Unfastening his robe he let it fall to the ground and walked over to the bed, wishing he had fought more battles and had scars to impress her with. He sat down on the edge of the bed, close to but not touching her and suddenly unsure of himself. But Man Bai took him gently by the shoulders with her hennaed hands and pulled him down beside her. ‘Welcome, cousin,’ she whispered. Needing no further encouragement, Salim drew her closer and kissed her, feeling her full mouth open beneath his. Then, freeing her from her diaphanous muslin robe, he began to run his hands over the soft contours of her body. She was delicately boned with a slender waist but her hips swelled voluptuously and her breasts were large — bigger than Geeta’s, Salim found himself thinking. Her hands began exploring his body, not with Geeta’s assurance and expertise but eagerly and unashamedly none the less.

Parting Man Bai’s thighs, he began to caress her. A quiver ran through her body and her breathing quickened. After a few moments she arched her back and eyes closed began to cry out softly, pressing herself so tightly against him he could feel the hardness of her nipples. Young though he was, he had learned enough about women to know that she did not want him to delay. Raising himself, he gently tried to enter her. She felt very tight. He had never made love to a virgin and knew he must be careful not to hurt her. But again he sensed the eagerness within his bride. Her cries were growing louder and her hands, gripping the hard muscle of his shoulders, were urging him on. He began to thrust harder, more urgently. Man Bai’s cries were turning to moans but they were of pleasure not pain. Then he felt something within her ease and he was deep inside her. They were moving as one, bodies locked together and their skin dewed with sweat. Salim’s eyes were clenched and his head was thrown back. He was trying to hold back for a few more moments, but he couldn’t. The climax came, and mingling with his own ecstatic groans he heard Man Bai’s gasps of pleasure.

Lying close to his young bride, hands cupping the lush curve of her buttocks, Salim said nothing. Her sexual hunger had stunned him a little but he was glad to have a wife who unashamedly enjoyed the sexual act and on her wedding night had been eager, not afraid. It was she who spoke first, disengaging from him, sitting up and pushing her sweat-dampened hair back from her face. ‘What are you thinking, cousin?’

‘That I am fortunate in my wife.’

‘And I am fortunate in my husband.’ She put her hands round his neck. ‘They told me you were good-looking, but brides are often told lies about the men their families want them to marry. I only remembered you as a tongue-tied awkward boy.’

The next morning, the wedding sheets were duly inspected and approved, and drums were beaten to proclaim the success of the wedding night. Among those presenting themselves to pay their respects to the new bridegroom was Abul Fazl. ‘I have recorded in the imperial chronicles that Your Highness was yesterday wedded to one of the brightest jewels of chastity in the empire,’ he said in his usual unctuous way. Salim listened politely, as he had to, but he was glad when Abul Fazl departed.

The festivities over the days that followed were everything Akbar had promised. Wedding gifts from across the empire: gems, dishes of jade, silver and gold, high-stepping Arab horses, embroidered shawls of the softest wool — yet another gift from the chastened Sultan of Kashmir — and even a pair of lions were displayed through the streets of Lahore. Camel races were organised along the banks of the Ravi river. To his great satisfaction Salim beat both his half-brothers in one contest, successfully urging his snorting, spitting, splay-footed mount over the finishing line, the roars of the spectators in his ears. The strongest of his father’s fighting elephants were pitted against one another within high earth barricades, fighting until their grey hides were lacerated and their tusks dripped with blood, while every night there was more feasting and towards midnight so many fireworks that they turned the dark world back to day.

But every evening, however spectacular and novel the entertainments, Salim’s thoughts turned to the moment when he could again be in Man Bai’s eager arms till the morning sun was warming the palace. Suleiman Beg joked that if he continued like this he would need ointment from the hakims to soothe his over-active loins.

‘I name you, my first and most beloved son, Khusrau.’ So saying, Salim picked up the white jade saucer filled with tiny gold coins and poured them gently over the baby’s head. ‘May your life be crowned with success, in token of which I shower you with these earthly riches.’ The child blinked, then looked up at Salim from the silk-fringed green velvet cushion on which he was lying. Salim expected at any moment to hear wails of protest but instead Khusrau smiled and thrashed his arms and legs. Salim picked up the cushion and raised it high so all could see his healthy young son. A polite murmuring followed as the assembled courtiers and commanders exclaimed aloud at the child’s vigour and lustiness and uttered good wishes for his long life.

Salim glanced at his father standing by his side on the marble dais. This was Akbar’s first grandson and his face, still handsome and firm-jawed though he was in his forties, looked both pleased and proud. The previous day Salim had received a pair of hunting leopards in velvet coats, their gilded leather collars set with emeralds — a certain sign of his father’s approval. Surely now that he had become a father himself Akbar would give him some position in which he could demonstrate his abilities. Given the chance to lead a Moghul army, he could prove to everyone — not just his father — that he was a good fighter and commander and would one day make a great emperor.

His half-brothers were no rivals, Akbar must see that. Murad had married three months ago, but even at his tender age he had been drunk at his wedding feast and later had had to be half carried to his bride’s bed. Salim had known of Murad’s love of wine and spirits, but until his wedding his half-brother had managed to conceal his drunkenness from Akbar. Their father had been so enraged that he had ordered Murad immediately on campaign in the south. To keep an eye on him, he had sent one of his senior commanders with orders that not a drop of alcohol was to pass his son’s lips. As for Daniyal, he was going the same way as Murad. Since reaching adolescence, pleasure and self-indulgence were all he seemed to care about. Salim rarely saw either of his half-brothers but he had heard the stories, particularly the one about how Daniyal had ordered the largest fountain in the marble courtyard of his apartments to be made to flow with the rich red wine of Ghazni, not water, and how he and his companions had stripped naked to frolic in it, and the one about the time a drunken Murad had dressed as a woman and danced lewdly before not only his courtiers but also an envoy sent by the Portuguese from their enclave of Goa.

Salim smiled as he gently placed his son back in the arms of one of his milk-mothers, a sister of Suleiman Beg. As he did so he vowed he would spend more time with his son than Akbar had done with him. He would have more sons too, not only by Man Bai but also by his other wives — Jodh Bai, a Rajput princess from Marwar, and Sahib Jamal, daughter of one of Akbar’s commanders. He enjoyed his growing haram. His father was always urging on him the importance of forging alliances through marriage but really he needed little encouragement. Any new woman if she was young and good-looking was a fresh adventure, and if for political reasons it was expedient to marry a woman who was faded or ugly, well, not every wife had to be bedded more than once and she could always be found an honourable place in his haram. That had always been his father’s policy and through his huge number of wives he had, as he so often boasted, done much to pacify and consolidate his empire. Why shouldn’t he, Salim, be the same?

The only shadow, as Salim moved to take his place at the feast to celebrate his son’s birth, was Man Bai. She still excited him sexually but he hadn’t been prepared for her jealousy when, six months after his marriage to her, his father had announced that he wished Salim to take a further wife. Man Bai had pleaded with him not to do it, weeping copiously in her apartments and — as the day of his second wedding approached — refusing to eat. Again and again he had explained that he must obey his father but she wouldn’t listen, shrieking at him that he was betraying her. Summoned by a nervous attendant to his haram one night, Salim had found Man Bai perched on a stone balustrade overlooking a stone-paved courtyard thirty feet below. ‘You have driven me to this,’ she had shouted as soon as she saw him. ‘You have made me desperate. Wasn’t my love enough for you? Is it because I haven’t yet conceived?’

With her wild hair, red-rimmed eyes and gaunt features, Man Bai had reminded him of a mad young woman he had sometimes seen in the bazaar, going from person to person upbraiding them for some imaginary injury and being driven away by stones and dung. He had hardly recognised his beautiful Rajput wife as she clung trembling and dishevelled to the stonework. He had coaxed her down, explaining as patiently and tenderly as he could that as a royal Moghul prince he must do his father’s bidding and marry again, but of course it would not affect his feelings for her.

Except that it had. Man Bai’s unreasoning hysteria had made him wonder what else he didn’t know about his cousin. It had also made him realise that what he felt for her wasn’t love — only sexual passion. She should be happy living in the magnificence of the Moghul court surrounded by luxuries beyond those even a Rajput princess was used to. He made frequent visits to her bed where they were each other’s equals in the giving and receiving of pleasure. That should surely be enough. It was foolishness to expect to be his only wife. But her unexpected jealousy had left him wary of Man Bai. His visits to her had grown less frequent and not long after her threatened suicide he had indeed married Jodh Bai. With her plump body and round face she wasn’t as beautiful as Man Bai, but her wit made him laugh and he liked her company even if he didn’t feel a close bond with her.

As fate would have it, four months after his marriage to Jodh Bai and just before his marriage to Sahib Jamal, Man Bai had become pregnant with Khusrau — the first of the next generation of the Moghul dynasty. The status that conferred should satisfy Man Bai, but if it didn’t there was nothing he could do and he would not allow it to worry him — though it did, particularly the thought that their son might inherit some of her self-centred lack of control.

Akbar’s deep voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Let us now go to feast the birth of this new prince. May he and the dynasty prosper.’

As he took his place at the feast, Salim offered up a silent prayer for his own prosperity. If he became the next Moghul emperor, what might he not be able to do for his sons?