Ruler of the World

Chapter 22

‘What’s the matter? You’ve been preoccupied all afternoon. I thought you’d have so much to tell me.’

‘I have. Abul Fazl will soon be returning to court from the tour of inspection in Delhi my father sent him on,’ said Salim to Suleiman Beg, as they rode slowly into the shallows of the Ravi river to allow the steaming horses they had just raced along its banks to cool off. Suleiman Beg had been with his father in the Punjab and they hadn’t seen one another for some months.

‘So what? You’re obsessed with him.’

‘I have good cause.’

‘Just because he’s ambitious and relishes being your father’s confidant doesn’t make him your enemy.’

‘He fears me — and my brothers — as rivals, I’m sure of it. That’s why he reports every fault, every indiscretion of Murad and Daniyal to my father — don’t interrupt me, Suleiman Beg, I know he does. I’ve heard him do it.’

‘Perhaps he regards it as his duty. Your brothers are idiots.’

‘That’s not the point. What matters is that he tries to damage me as well in my father’s eyes.’

‘He’s never told your father about your argument with him. . not in the whole two years since it happened, has he?’

‘My father’s never said anything. But maybe Abul Fazl thought it didn’t reflect well on him either.’

‘Or perhaps he’s learned his lesson.’

‘No. He still tries to exclude me from everything. You weren’t at court when my father told me that having conquered Sind he intended to send a Moghul army to seize Kandahar.’ Salim’s horse lowered its head to drink the muddy river water and he gently stroked its sweat-mottled neck. ‘I begged my father to let me go on the campaign as one of the commanders. . I argued that I’d proved myself in Kashmir and deserved further opportunities. I even said it was a matter of family honour — we lost Kandahar to the Persians when my grandfather Humayun died and it was right that his eldest grandson should help win it back.’

‘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 to 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.’