Ruler of the World

Chapter 28

‘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.”’

Salim’s face stiffened with anger but he said nothing as Suleiman Beg continued. ‘The first spoke again. “True. In any case, Salim will seek to install his own favourites in positions of power. He is bound to prefer those who followed him in his traitorous rebellion to those of us who remained faithful to his father. We may be lucky if we escape the fate of Abul Fazl.” Then some more officers entered and the two speakers broke off their conversation to talk of other matters. But I am certain I’ve given you the gist of their words.’

Salim still did not speak for some moments as he tried, not entirely successfully, to compose his emotions. Among his worst fears while he was at Allahabad had been that his father might promote one of his grandsons as his successor rather than himself, but such thoughts had centred around Khurram, so clearly Akbar’s favourite, and he had been able to dismiss them on the grounds of Khurram’s youth. Khusrau might now be a different proposition. He was older and, since his return, Salim himself had noticed that his eldest son was gathering a band of confederates around him only a little older than himself. Finally he asked, ‘Is this the first time you’ve heard traitorous idiots speak about such a prospect?’

‘In such direct terms, yes.’ Suleiman Beg looked uneasy as he continued, ‘But I’ve heard others express doubts about their own fate should you succeed. It’s only natural that they should worry about the length and depth of your rift with your father and the newness of its healing. It’s only a short step from that to thinking about alternatives.’

‘I will not allow this,’ Salim yelled, rage welling within him as he seized a jewelled dish from the low table beside him and threw it hard against the wall, dislodging some turquoise and ruby stones and denting the dish itself.

‘Calm down,’ said Suleiman Beg. ‘You can’t stop people talking or thinking about what’s best for them. It’s human nature. You need to exert influence yourself. Convince more people of your own virtues and suitability to rule.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Salim, his anger subsiding a little. ‘But how, after the time I’ve spent away?’

‘Try to show you will let bygones be.’

‘Maybe one way might be by offering some of the sons of my father’s advisers appointments among my own counsellors.’

‘Wouldn’t that run the risk of introducing spies and discord amongst us?’

‘Perhaps, but in truth we have little to hide. What have I done since my return? Nothing other than wait patiently again and respond willingly to every trivial request my father’s made of me. I’ve bottled up my emotions, speaking only to you of my regret that the emperor will still not grant me more powers or give me some military command.’

‘Your father might be forgiven for not wishing to put you in charge of large armies until he is more certain of your intentions.’

‘I suppose I can understand that from his point of view,’ Salim responded, almost smiling. After a pause his brows knitted once more. ‘You don’t really think my father would ever contemplate disinheriting me in favour of my son, do you?’

‘To be truthful, I don’t know. . Even though he’s over sixty he remains a clever and complex man well attuned to understanding the motives and concerns of those around him without ever disclosing his own. Possibly he might have considered giving a little tacit encouragement to the idea of Khusrau succeeding him, knowing that you would come to hear of it. In this way he might seek to increase the pressure on you to continue to conform to his wishes and indeed to your reformed way of life.’

‘That would be typical of him and his cold machinations,’ Salim shouted again, grinding his heel into one of the thick rugs covering the floor before adding more quietly, ‘My father still has no regard for my feelings. Nor perhaps for those of any other of his relations. When Khusrau comes to hear of suggestions that he might succeed, it will only raise unrealistic expectations in him.’

‘So what do you intend to do?’

‘On the surface to ignore the rumours and continue to act the dutiful son, but privately to draw more followers to me with promises of rewards when I come to power, and to ensure I have enough officers and well-armed men to call on should the need arise. I’ll want your help with this. You can talk more freely than I.’

‘You will have it, Highness.’

‘Meanwhile I will try to find opportunities to probe Khusrau’s attitudes and ambitions. .’

Salim lost no time in arranging a meeting with Khusrau and it was only thirty-six hours later when father and son met at the archery butts. ‘I’m so pleased that you could join me today,’ said Salim as he put his arrow to the string of his double-curved bow and squinting along the shaft took careful aim at the straw-stuffed target, which was shaped and roughly dressed as a man. Moments later, the arrow hissed through the air to thud into the target’s torso.

‘Good shot, Father,’ said Khusrau as he fitted his own arrow and fired, striking the target within an inch of Salim’s shaft. Lowering his bow, he added, ‘I am always pleased to spend time with you.’

‘Good. We have been apart too long. I would not wish you to think you were absent from my mind while I was in Allahabad all those months.’

‘I did not.’

‘What I did I did for the good of the dynasty, for those who come to rule after me.’

Khusrau gave a wry smile. ‘But my grandfather rules now. God willing it will be a long time before he is called to his reward in Paradise. Who can tell what may happen to any of us in the meantime.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Salim, his tone sharper than he meant it to be as he raised his bow again and fired.

‘Simply that none of us can know what may happen during the years he continues to rule. All of us are mortal. Even if we live, the passage of time changes us and others’ perception of us.’ Khusrau shot another arrow. This time it split Salim’s last shaft as it embedded itself deep in the straw man. Was that shot simply a trick of fortune or an omen? wondered Salim, involuntarily recalling the Sikri mystic’s warning to beware his sons. He fitted another arrow and fired, striking the straw man in the throat.

‘You are right that our lives are subject to divine providence, but we should all wish them to follow a natural progression where sons outlive fathers and only then succeed in due order to their positions and responsibilities. None of us, I’m sure, would want it to be otherwise.’

Khusrau said nothing for a moment, then simply replied, ‘I would not wish that any more than you. I agree we’re all in God’s hands.’

As they continued their practice, as if by mutual consent drawing back from any confrontation, father and son turned their conversation towards everyday matters of court life. However, as he packed away his bow in its rosewood case at the end of the session while Khusrau walked back across the courtyard to join his grandfather in the elephant stables, Salim knew that ambition had been sparked in the heart of his mettlesome eldest son whether by Akbar or not. He must remain on his guard both to extend his network of allies and conciliate his enemies. Above all, he must do everything he could to impress his father, even if that meant concealing his true opinions. It would not be easy, but the reward of the throne would be worth it.

Tears coursed down the cheeks of both Akbar and Salim as the coffin was borne on a simple flower-decked wooden bier through a side gate of the Agra fort towards the boat that would carry it up the Jumna to Delhi for burial next to Humayun. Grief at Hamida’s death was uniting the two men in a way that would have pleased Hamida herself. She had slipped gently into death in her seventy-eighth year after only a few days’ illness with what had at first seemed a simple cough but quickly turned into something much worse.

As Akbar and Salim had sat on either side of the low bed on which she was lying, she had bid them goodbye. As fluid wheezed in her chest she had whispered to them to love each other as she loved them both, if not for her sake then for that of their dynasty. Stretching their arms across her frail body at her request to clasp each other’s hands, they had agreed to do so. Only minutes later, as the light of the crescent moon entered through the casement and a soft breeze rippled the gauze curtains, she had died. Her last words were, ‘I am coming through the stars to join you in Paradise, Humayun.’

What must be going through his father’s mind, Salim wondered as he fought to control his own emotions. Akbar must be growing conscious of his own mortality after the death of Gulbadan a few months previously and then Hamida’s. He was the oldest member of his family now as well as — as he had long been — its head. He had lost a mother who had loved him and protected him both in the very early days after his birth at Umarkot and when, after his father’s untimely death, rebellion had threatened. Hamida’s love for Akbar had been unconditional, as Salim knew it had been for himself. That was why he too would miss her more than he could say, feeling as he could not help but feel that both his mother’s love and that of Akbar were conditional on his adherence to their wishes, to their view of the world.

Salim glanced towards Daniyal, hunched and prematurely aged on his father’s other side. His surviving half-brother had only arrived back at the court an hour before from the isolated palace near Fatehpur Sikri he occupied at Akbar’s command and was visibly shaking. Salim suspected it was from either the effects of alcohol or the lack of it rather than from grief. Then Salim looked at his own three sons, Khusrau, Parvez and Khurram, standing next to him. Perhaps understandably none seemed as affected as himself and Akbar, not having known Hamida so well or for so long. Did they find him as difficult to read as he did his own father? Salim wondered, not for the first time. If they had gone to Hamida and asked her, would she have told them to respect him and learn from him, as she had told him to do from Akbar many years before?

She would have been too honest to do so unreservedly. She had recognised his faults: not only his drinking, his opium taking and his lusts but also his short temper, his impatience and his unforgiving hatred and hunger for vengeance against those such as Abul Fazl who he thought mistreated him. However, despite these failings she had still believed in him and his ability to redeem his faults if he came to rule. He hoped she would have said as much to his sons too. If she ever had, Khusrau at least had shown no signs of taking the message on board. He continued to distance himself from his father, correct, formal and emotionless when they met but seeming to avoid contact whenever he could and, Salim suspected, continuing to hope to supplant him. That was perhaps how Akbar felt about himself, Salim realised. Then he looked across at his father’s lined and tear-stained face and instinctively, almost involuntarily, placed his hand on his elbow in a gesture of understanding and support in his present grief. As the drums beat a slow and mournful tattoo and Hamida’s body was carried carefully up the boat’s gangplank, Akbar allowed his son’s hand to remain on his arm while he took his leave of his mother on earth.

‘Suleiman Beg, you’re bleeding. What’s happened?’ Salim exclaimed as his milk-brother pushed his way through the hangings covering the doorway into Salim’s apartment, crimson blood staining his green tunic and running down his left hand and fingers to drip on to the white marble floor.

‘Just a small argument about the succession and a flesh wound.’

‘Come here, let me see. Should I summon the hakim?’

‘Perhaps. Scratch though this wound is, I may require his needle and thread.’ Suleiman Beg held out his hand and Salim ripped back the fabric of his tunic sleeve to reveal the wound — a three-inch-long slash to the upper arm just above the elbow. As Salim dabbed the blood away with his own neckcloth he saw that it had exposed some creamy yellow fat and some muscle but had not penetrated to the bone.

‘You’re right. It’s a clean wound and not too deep, but you will need the hakim. It’s bleeding a lot so hold your arm above your head to lessen the flow while I bind it.’ As he wound his neckcloth around Suleiman Beg’s muscled biceps, he shouted for one of his attendants to fetch the hakim and then asked Suleiman Beg once more, this time with a concern in his voice that went beyond his care for his closest friend, ‘What happened? How do you mean, an argument about the succession?’

‘I was walking through the courtyard past a band of Khusrau’s youthful followers when one said to another in a voice deliberately raised for me to hear, “There goes old Suleiman Beg. I pity him. He has backed the wrong candidate to succeed the emperor. Unlike us, when Khusrau comes to power — and not his rebel of a father — he’ll be left with nothing. Perhaps one of us should make him our khutmagar, our butler. He must know enough about wine. He’ll have poured plenty for Salim.” I knew the taunt was meant to provoke me but I couldn’t help myself. I turned and walked up to the group, grabbed the speaker by the throat, flung him back against one of the pillars and invited him to repeat what he’d said. He spluttered that the time for my generation was past. When the emperor died we’d be passed over. It would be for the young to succeed.

‘Then I told him, tightening my grip around his throat, to ask me to become his khutmagar, if he would. He said nothing. I squeezed harder still. His face was turning purple and his eyes were popping. If I’d persisted a minute longer he’d have been dead. Suddenly I felt a sharp stinging pain in my arm. One of his companions, bolder than the rest, had slashed me with his dagger to make me release my grip. For a moment my eyes met my assailant’s, both of us appalled at what had happened and even more at what might have happened. . Then Khusrau’s little adherents ran off, hauling with them their loud-mouthed companion, who was still gasping for breath. His throat will hurt for days and he should at least think twice before provoking his betters again.’

‘I couldn’t have shown the restraint you did,’ said Salim. ‘Khusrau’s followers are becoming ever bolder, posturing and strutting around and proclaiming my son’s virtues and his fitness to rule. Since Daniyal’s miserable death left me the only survivor of my father’s sons, their clamour for the crown to skip a generation has become more intense and more open. How dare they attack you? It’s as if they want to see how far they can go or perhaps even provoke me into action against them, thus alienating my father.’

‘Why doesn’t the emperor stop them?’

‘I don’t know. He’s aged a lot since the deaths of his mother and Daniyal. Suddenly he looks his sixty-two years and his bouts of stomach problems have become more frequent. His greatest interest seems to be in the company of Khurram, testing and probing his abilities and teaching him in a way he never did with his sons or indeed his other grandsons.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t deliberately letting Khusrau and his followers push their case to see what level of support they can muster compared to ourselves.’

‘Perhaps so. I’ve been pleased that even some of the older nobles promoted on Abul Fazl’s urgings are now beginning to cultivate my favour, perturbed by Khusrau’s pressure for youth to rule experience. Maybe my father is being more astute than I give him credit for and is flushing out the preferences of his courtiers.’

‘Frail as he is becoming, the emperor should never be underestimated.’

‘But then how do you explain his outbursts against me? The other day, for example, when he criticised my handling of some of the military training, suggesting in front of the whole court I had been negligent or in an opium trance just because a fool of an officer, as the man later admitted, had misheard my command and turned his squadron in the wrong direction on the parade ground.’

‘All men hate to lose their grip on power. Sometimes if they feel it slipping they cannot help but lash out in frustration at their successors, raging inwardly at their debility and the transitoriness of power and even of life itself.’

‘You’re becoming a philosopher, Suleiman Beg,’ said Salim as one of his qorchis appeared through the hangings of the doorway to announce hakim’s arrival. ‘Enough. Let’s talk more later. Now you must let the hakim perfect his embroidery on you.’

‘What is it, Khurram?’ said Salim, surprised to see his youngest son approaching across the courtyard where he and Suleiman Beg were playing chess.

‘My grandfather says that it will aid his recovery to full health to watch you and Khusrau pit your best fighting elephants one against the other.’

Salim and Suleiman Beg exchanged glances. ‘When?’

‘Later this afternoon when it grows a little cooler. My grandfather wishes the fight to take place on the banks of the Jumna below the fort so he can watch from the jharoka balcony.’

‘Tell him that I am happy to obey and that I will send my favourite fighting elephant, World Shaker, against Khusrau’s.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Have you spoken yet to your brother?’

‘It was Khusrau who suggested holding a fight when he came to visit Grandfather today. He was praising a giant elephant he’d imported from Bengal called Damudar that has never yet been beaten.’

‘It will be a good contest then. World Shaker has never lost a fight either.’ Salim smiled at his son, but as soon as Khurram had left his smile faded. ‘Khusrau has deliberately contrived this contest. I’m certain of it. He hopes to defeat me before all the court.’

‘Perhaps he does, but how can he be sure his elephant will beat yours?’

‘He is conceited enough to believe this Bengal fighter of his is invincible. But even if not, he will know that the very fact of holding the fight will suggest to the world that he and I are equals — both contenders for my father’s favour. You know better than anyone the extent of his and his supporters’ ambitions. . You carry the scar. He will think victory for him will be seen as a symbol and an omen.’

‘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?