Ruler of the World

Chapter 3

In the palace fortress of Lahore, Akbar looked down from the marble dais. He was sitting on the high-backed throne that at Bairam Khan’s suggestion he had ordered to be cast from melted-down gold coin from Hemu’s treasure chests. The throne had accompanied Akbar everywhere during his six-month-long imperial progress through Hindustan. The idea of showing himself to his people in the aftermath of his triumph had been his own, but Bairam Khan had helped him orchestrate an awesome display of Moghul power.

The progress had delivered everything Akbar had hoped. How powerful, how proud, he had felt to ride at its head on his favourite black stallion with the gold-mounted saddle and bridle, wearing his father’s gleaming breastplate and Alamgir at his side. Next to him had been Bairam Khan and immediately behind them those commanders who had especially distinguished themselves in the battle against Hemu, including Adham Khan his milk-brother. After that — keeping in time with the martial cacophony of trumpets and kettledrums — had come the squadrons of horsemen, green pennants fluttering and steel-tipped lances erect, then the archers, musketmen and artillerymen, some mounted and some on foot. Behind had rumbled the wagonloads of booty seized from Hemu’s camp — sacks of coin, chests of jewels, bales of silks — protected by a special detachment of guards.

A quarter of a mile further behind, so that the dust rising from the road should not dim the spectacle, had followed the swaying glittering trumpeting mass of Akbar’s war elephants in their steel-plate armour, some with blunted scimitars tied to their red-painted tusks. In battle those blades would be honed to a deadly sharpness, but these were merely for show. With the elephants captured from Hemu, Akbar now had over six hundred. Next trundled the gun carriages and the bullock wagons bearing Akbar’s bronze cannon, then the huge baggage train carrying all the paraphernalia — tents, cooking pots, food and fuel — for the imperial encampment.

Often the crowds jostling for a sight of the Moghul procession as it passed had been so numerous that soldiers had had to hold them back with their spear shafts. Even in the remote countryside, people had come running from their fields to view the spectacle and make their obeisance. All the same, Akbar had been glad when it was finally over. It had been his particular wish that it should end here, in Lahore — the city which two years ago, on a balmy February day in 1555, his father Humayun had entered in triumph on his way to reconquer Hindustan. Akbar had been at his side and could recall everything, from the gleam of the gold thread and pearl-encrusted saddlecloth of the elephant on which they had been riding to the exultant expression on his father’s face as he had turned to smile at him.

Out of respect for his father, he had ordered every detail replicated for his own entrance into Lahore, which he had made last night as the sky had crimsoned to the west. Now, gazing from his high throne on the rows of chieftains prostrated before him in the formal greeting of the korunush, Akbar felt a deep satisfaction. As news of the Moghul victory over Hemu had spread, they had not been able to declare their allegiance to him fast enough. Every day riders had arrived bearing unctuous messages and extravagant gifts — matched pairs of hunting dogs, doves with jewelled collars and feathers dyed in rainbow hues, jade-hilted daggers, muskets with ivory-inlaid stocks, solid gold emerald-studded incense burners and tortoiseshell boxes of fragrant frankincense — even a great ruby that its owner ingratiatingly explained had been a family heirloom for over five centuries.

He had accepted these treasures graciously but he was already shrewd enough to know that often the more lavish the present, the greater the treachery the giver had probably been contemplating. After consulting Bairam Khan, Akbar had decided to summon these supposedly loyal allies to await him at Lahore.

‘You may rise.’

The sixty or so men, some sleek and plump in robes of silk and brocade in every colour from sapphire blue to saffron yellow, others — chieftains from the mountains — in coarse-woven tunics and trousers, got to their feet and waited, hands folded and heads bowed.

‘I thank you for answering my summons and for your oaths of loyalty. I recall the oaths made to my father when he too passed through Lahore not long ago. Indeed, I recognise many of you.’ Akbar allowed his gaze to roam slowly along the lines. Bairam Khan had briefed him well. He knew that among these chieftains were at least ten who had sworn allegiance to his father but on his death had immediately ceased sending the tribute they owed. Two had even made approaches to Hemu. They must be wondering how much Akbar knew. Did that pockmarked, pot-bellied chieftain from near Multan, who had just presented him with a fine chestnut stallion and was now regarding the carpet beneath his feet so studiously, suspect that in Akbar’s possession was proof of his treachery? Ahmed Khan’s men had intercepted one of his officers carrying a letter to Hemu.

On the road to Lahore, Akbar had spent many hours debating with Bairam Khan and his counsellors how best to handle those whose loyalty had been found wanting. Some had argued that in the days of his grandfather Babur there would have been no mercy. The guilty would have been stretched on the stone of execution to be crushed by the foot of an elephant until their stomachs ruptured and their intestines spilled, or else flayed alive or torn apart by stallions. But yet again — just as with Tardi Beg — Akbar could not forget the words his father had been so fond of saying to him: ‘Any man can be vengeful. Only the truly great can be merciful.’

Akbar had heard enough court gossip to know that some — perhaps even his mother Hamida — believed Humayun had sometimes carried magnanimity too far. Yet instinct told Akbar his father had often been right. The Moghuls would always be warriors who would not hesitate to spill blood when necessary. But if they were to succeed in Hindustan they must rule by respect as well as fear. Too much killing led to too many blood feuds. Bairam Khan, listening gravely to the arguments and, as was his habit, saying little at first, had eventually agreed with him but had added a warning. ‘Remember this. Know your enemies and listen to what our spies tell you. If, despite your attempts at reconciliation, they persist in their treachery then wipe them from the face of the earth.’

Akbar brought his mind back to the present. None of those before him seemed anxious to catch his eye. It was time to frighten them a little and he had prepared his words with care. ‘I know why you are here. You perceive that the winds of war have blown in my favour. It was not luck that made this happen. My ancestor Timur conquered Hindustan and so gave the Moghuls an inalienable right to these lands. My grandfather Babur asserted that right, as did my father and as do I. Any man who challenges it will pay a heavy price, as Hemu discovered.’ Here Akbar paused and then, speaking in a firm, clear voice, he said, ‘Despite your fine words and gifts, I know that many of you have been traitors to me. Perhaps, even now, you are contemplating treachery. Look at me, all of you, so that I can see into your eyes.’

Slowly, the assembled chiefs raised their heads. All looked anxious, even the ones who were probably innocent of any wrong-doing. Young as he was, Akbar had learned enough from his father’s struggles to know that most men craved power. Of those standing awkwardly before him, some visibly sweating, there could be few who had not at least thought of defecting from the Moghuls at some point during Hemu’s rebellion.

‘I have evidence that several among you have plotted against me. At a single word from me, my guards stand ready to mete out justice.’ He saw the chieftains’ eyes turn to the green-robed, black-turbaned men positioned on either side of the dais. ‘Since I rode into Lahore I have been asking myself what I should do. .’ Akbar paused. The pockmarked man had started to shake. ‘But I am young. My reign is young. I do not want to spill more blood, and so I have decided to be merciful. I will forget past transgressions and look to you — as I do to all in my empire — to give me your undivided loyalty. Do this and you will find me generous. If you do not, nothing will save you.’

As Akbar rose, the chieftains prostrated themselves once more, but not before he had seen the relief in many eyes. He felt pleased with himself. His voice had rung out clearly and he hadn’t stumbled over his words. And he had sensed his power. With a single gesture he could have had any of them killed instantly. He had known it and they had known it. It was exhilarating to realise that he could alter the course of men’s lives and it had made him wish to be generous. That was why on impulse — without having discussed it with his councillors or with Bairam Khan — he had decided to pardon the offenders. He had seen Bairam Khan start with surprise at his words and then frown. But Bairam Khan didn’t seem to understand how his confidence had been growing. He still treated him as a mere youth. Though Akbar trusted Bairam Khan above all others, an insidious thought had begun squirming in his brain — that perhaps his regent had become so enamoured of power he couldn’t bear to relinquish it. .

Akbar was still musing when later that night, returning to his apartments, he saw an old woman waiting outside with his qorchi. ‘Majesty, this woman has been appointed the khawajasara, keeper of the haram here in the palace, and she wishes to speak to you,’ said the squire.

The old woman’s raisin eyes were still bright in her wrinkled face and there was a smile on her lips. ‘I served your father, Majesty, and I tended his concubines when he was a young prince,’ she began. Then she paused, and it seemed to Akbar that she was scrutinising him with some interest.

‘Have you something you wish to say to me?’ The night air seemed hot and heavy, and Akbar was tired. For a reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he felt uneasy under her penetrating gaze.

‘Majesty, you now have many women in the haram here, sent in recent weeks by chieftains and rulers wishing to win your favour. You have a physique that is the envy of many grown men and admired by every woman. I thought you might wish me to send one of the girls to you, or perhaps you would prefer to choose one for yourself?’

Akbar stared at her, blushing and shifting from foot to foot. It was a standing joke of his milk-brother Adham Khan that although nearly fifteen Akbar hadn’t yet lost his virginity. Plenty of young women — even his mother’s attendants — had tried to catch his eye in recent months. Each time he had felt bashful. He wasn’t quite sure why. Was it because as emperor he didn’t wish to appear inexperienced or foolish in front of anyone, even a concubine? Yet time was moving on. He had fought his first battle as emperor and was becoming a man. It was time to enjoy a man’s pleasures and also to satisfy the curiosity that Adham Khan’s endless smutty jokes and boasts of his own sexual prowess had roused in him. The khawajasara’s eyes were still fixed on him and he sensed that she too knew he’d not yet been with a woman.

‘Let me choose for you, Majesty,’ she said.

Akbar hesitated, but with pulses racing and a hardening in his groin, only for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said in what he hoped was a measured, experienced manner.

‘Will you come to the haram, Majesty?’

Akbar thought about all the eyes and ears that would be watching and listening if he did. The haram here in the Lahore palace was where all the women of the imperial household were lodged, including his mother, his aunt and his milk-mother. At the thought of their amused speculations, however affectionate, he flushed again, ardour cooling. Then he made up his mind. Now was the time. ‘No. Send her here, to my apartments.’

The old woman padded briskly away down the long corridor, torchlight from sconces on the walls lighting her way. Perhaps she had been a beauty once, maybe even one of his father’s concubines. Akbar had often heard that before his marriage to Hamida, whom he had loved to the exclusion of all others, Humayun had been a great lover of women, with many concubines.

Dismissing his attendants, he waited alone, pacing his apartments gripped by a mixture of excitement and apprehension. As the minutes passed his nervousness began to get the upper hand. He would send word to the haram that he had changed his mind, he decided. He was just moving towards the tall double doors of polished mulberry when they opened and his qorchi stepped inside. ‘Majesty, the girl is here. The keeper of the haram says she is a former concubine of the Raja of Talkh who prized her greatly and sent her hoping she would please you also. Her name is Mayala. Shall I send her in?’

Akbar nodded. A moment later a tall, slim form wrapped in a hooded dark purple robe slipped in through the doors, which closed behind her. The hood was pulled low so her face was in shadow as she came towards him and knelt. Akbar hesitated, then took her hands and pulled her gently to her feet. She stood motionless before him but he could hear her soft, rapid breathing. As he pushed back her hood, long black hair gleaming like silk spilled out and he caught the scent of jasmine. She was still looking down but now he took her face in his hands and raised it.

Eyes black as ebony gazed back at him and her full lips, reddened with the salve he had seen his mother apply, were smiling. After a few moments, as if she sensed his uncertainty, she gently guided his hands to the silver clasps of her robe between her breasts. As he released them, her robe fell to the floor and lay in a dark pool around her. Beneath she was naked except for a golden chain set with tiny rubies around her slender waist. Her hips were voluptuous, her breasts round and high, the nipples rimmed with henna.

As Akbar stood motionless, lost for words, she stepped back. Running her hands through the magnificent veil of hair that fell almost to her buttocks, she revolved slowly before him. ‘I think you like me, Majesty,’ she whispered. Akbar nodded. She stepped towards him and he felt her begin slowly, teasingly, to loosen his own garments until he too was naked. After gazing at his taut and muscular body for a moment, she smiled. ‘Come, Majesty. Be my stallion.’ Placing her fingers on his arm she led him to the bed, and when he lay down beside her she took his hand and guided it between her thighs. ‘See, Majesty, the mandir mandal, the moist temple of love, which soon you will enter. This is what you must do. .’

Six hours later, Akbar was lying on his back, the girl beside him, both their bodies beaded with sweat. She was sleeping now, arms and legs spread, her breasts rising and falling and her lips half parted. As he turned his head to watch her, he thought how strange it was that in such a brief time his life had changed for ever. She had introduced him into a whole new world of sensual experience in which to lose himself. They had already made love three times, from his first, tentative, then eager thrustings and almost instant climax when, under her instruction, he had pulled himself on top of her, to the other more subtle, imaginative and slightly longer-lasting ways she had begun to teach him, which seemed to give her as much sublime pleasure as him. At the thought, desire rose within him again. Reaching out, he stroked the soft velvet curve of her hip. Sleepily Mayala opened her dark eyes, then smiled languorously. No one would ever doubt his manhood, thought Akbar, young hips thrusting joyously and vigorously as he mounted her once more.

The Jumna river curling away beneath the walls of the Agra fort was a faint gleam in the light of the new moon but as Akbar walked the battlements he barely noticed the beauty of the night. Over two years had passed since his triumphant progress through Hindustan after defeating Hemu. Ten days ago, on 15 October, he had celebrated his seventeenth birthday in this great brick and sandstone fortress with its courtyards, fountains and lofty durbar hall. His decision to make Agra — not Delhi, 120 miles upstream to the north — his capital had been deliberate. Agra had been his grandfather Babur’s capital and it would have been his father Humayun’s had death not robbed him of it. His mother, aunt and milk-mother had all approved his decision, as had his commanders and councillors. Only Bairam Khan had been against it, insisting that Delhi was better placed strategically to deal with any revolts or invasions. Not wanting to be seen to argue with the emperor in public, he had come to Akbar’s private apartments, but Akbar had refused to be swayed, adamant that he was the emperor and of an age to take his own decisions. Bairam Khan had stalked out pale-faced from the first real dispute they had ever had.

At the recollection, Akbar frowned. Matters hadn’t improved over the intervening months. He was finding Bairam Khan increasingly irksome and interfering. It seemed that as he himself was gaining in confidence and seeking a greater role in governing, Bairam Khan was actively trying to frustrate him. With every rebuff his conviction that he must be free to take the government into his own hands was growing.

So far he had kept his thoughts to himself, conscious of all Bairam Khan had done to secure the fragile boundaries of his empire, but the need to confide in someone — someone he could trust completely — was growing overwhelming. Perhaps his mother with her astute mind would know how to advise him? Descending the winding stone staircase from the battlements he made his way through a flower-filled courtyard to the main haram where Hamida, as befitted the mother of the emperor, had the best apartments, with a balcony projecting out over the Jumna where she could catch the refreshing breezes. Tonight, though, the air was cool and he found her in her sleeping chamber, which was lit by oil lamps and wicks burning in diyas, saucers of scented oil placed in carved niches in the walls. She was reading her favourite book of Persian poems but put it aside when he entered.

‘How is it with my son?’ The warm sandalwood scent of her enveloped him as she embraced him. When he didn’t answer, she stepped back and looked hard into his face. ‘What is it? You look troubled.’

‘I am, Mother.’

‘Sit down and tell me.’

Hamida listened intently as he poured out his pent-up grievances and his frustrations. When he had finished she sat for a moment in silence, a frown puckering her still beautiful forehead beneath a thin gold circlet set with emeralds and pearls — one of his father’s last gifts to her. When at last she looked at him, her expression was sombre.

‘Even if some of your complaints are justified, how can you forget what Bairam Khan has done for our family? Perhaps I need to remind you. After your father saved his life in battle, Bairam Khan pledged himself to fighting for the Moghuls. Even when our fortunes were bleakest he kept faith with us, though he could easily have returned to Persia, to the shah’s service. After your father’s death, as you very well know, his determination and courage saved you and our dynasty.’

‘I know, but. .’

Hamida held up her hand to silence him. ‘It is natural, now that you are becoming a man, that his guidance irks you, and it is true that he can sometimes seem overbearing. But it’s far better to have an adviser who does not scruple to speak the truth than one who drips honeyed agreement with your every whim. You must learn patience. When you are eighteen will be the time to think of taking power fully into your own hands and ruling without a regent. Until then, wait, watch and learn. It is only since the victory over Hemu that you have shown any interest in government. Before that, however hard I and Bairam Khan tried, you weren’t interested. When there were council meetings you knew you should attend, you played truant, going off to race camels or hawking with Adham Khan. Even now you spend more time with your women than studying the real needs of your empire. I don’t blame you. The pleasures of the haram are sweet. A young man needs to satisfy his desires and it must be flattering to have so many women competing to fulfil your every wish. But ask yourself whether you are truly ready to take full control or whether it is just the arrogance and impetuosity of youth speaking.’

‘I am ready. .’

‘No, don’t interrupt. Listen. That is exactly what I meant about too much haste. And perhaps your impatience — your lack of concentration — is why you still cannot read. Every tutor we appointed to teach you gave up in despair. Bairam Khan himself tried to instruct you but you wouldn’t attend. Your father and his father before him were scholars as well as warriors. A good ruler should be in command of everything, including himself.’

‘That’s unfair.’ Why had she changed the subject? How many times had he tried to explain to her that, whenever he looked at a page, the words seemed to move about, becoming such a jumble he couldn’t make sense of them? But this was something his mother, a great reader herself, couldn’t seem to grasp. He rose to his feet. His conversation with Hamida had not gone as he had intended. The sooner it was ended the better. He had expected her unquestioning support and instead she had first attacked, then side-tracked him. ‘Thank you for your advice,’ he said stiffly.

‘Akbar, don’t be offended. I spoke only for your own good. You will be a great emperor and I am so proud of you. You excel with every weapon. There is no better archer, rider, wrestler or swordsman than you. You are fearless, open-hearted and generous in spirit. You have the ability to make your people love you. But you must learn to be patient and tread carefully with those closer to you who do not immediately bow to your will. And above all, remember whom you have to thank for so much of the good that has come to you.’

Akbar stood silent and straight-backed as she got up and kissed his forehead. Dismay that she thought him heedless and ungrateful mingled with anger that, like Bairam Khan, she too should treat him like a thoughtless, pleasure-loving youth, grabbing for power he didn’t yet fully comprehend, never mind merit. Flinging open the doors himself, he strode quickly back to his own apartments. He shouldn’t resent his mother’s words but he couldn’t help it. Why didn’t she understand? She had let him down.

He was still brooding when, a little later, his qorchi entered. ‘What is it?’

‘Maham Anga asks that you visit her.’

What did his milk-mother want? a surly-faced Akbar wondered as he approached the silverleaf-covered doors leading to her apartments. Perhaps Hamida had asked Maham Anga to join her in urging patience and moderation on him. If so, their meeting would be short — he didn’t need another lecture. But Maham Anga’s face as she greeted him showed only affection and concern.

‘These past weeks I’ve noticed you’ve looked troubled, and my attendants tell me that earlier this evening you left your mother’s apartments abruptly, as if in anger. Akbar, what is wrong?’ Her clear, hazel eyes looked into his and her voice was as softly coaxing as when he’d been a child. She had always listened to him, always understood. . He found himself pouring out his grievances anew. She listened attentively and without interrupting, just occasionally nodding her head. When at last he fell silent, Maham Anga’s first question was, ‘What did your mother say when you told her this?’

‘Just to be patient.’

‘She is right, of course. It isn’t wise to act precipitately and you still have much to learn.’ His milk-mother was going to agree with his mother, thought Akbar. But then Mahan Anga continued, ‘That is why I wished to talk to you. I too have been growing anxious. I see that you are becoming ready to rule and that Bairam Khan — great man though he is — does not wish to acknowledge it.’

‘He doesn’t wish to give up his power. Since my father’s death he’s been emperor in all but name. .’ The words came rushing out. ‘Now he feels his power slipping from him. He resents it when I assert myself, like when I decided to move my capital here, to Agra.’

‘Perhaps he does think of himself as emperor. I know he makes appointments to imperial posts from among his followers without securing your permission. What is more, I hear,’ she said, dropping her voice as she went on, ‘he has recently been exercising even more of an emperor’s privileges. Akbar, there is something you should know, but first you must promise to tell no one that this information came from me.’

‘Of course. What did you mean about Bairam Khan and an emperor’s privileges?’

‘I am told he has been enriching himself from the imperial treasuries. In particular that he took a valuable diamond necklace with a jewelled peacock for its clasp from booty found in Hemu’s camp after your great victory at Panipat. Hemu’s vizier had listed it in his ledgers as among his master’s greatest treasures but none of your officials could find it. As a result, some soldiers who were supposed to have been guarding the chests of booty were flogged for their negligence.’

‘And you are certain that Bairam Khan took it?’

‘Yes. At first I didn’t believe the stories — unfounded rumours always abound at court, and in particular in the haram where sometimes there is little to do but gossip. But several weeks ago your milk-brother said he had a story that would amuse me. He told me of a concubine who until recently had been in Bairam Khan’s haram and had seen this necklace with her own eyes — indeed she had worn it. It seems that Bairam Khan likes his favourite of the moment to wear it when naked in his presence. My son didn’t realise the significance of his story — he just thought I’d laugh to hear about Bairam Khan’s habits. I said nothing and he has no idea I recognised the necklace from his description.’

‘I can’t believe Bairam Khan would do such a thing.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t see it as theft. Perhaps he thought it was his right. After all, he has been regent for four years, and power does strange things to people, Akbar.’

‘But why take the necklace in secret? Why let others suffer?’

‘A good question.’

Akbar thought for a moment. Maham Anga had no reason to lie. She had only mentioned the story after hearing of his concern. Bairam Khan was clearly becoming addicted to his power and the perquisites it brought. His mind was made up. ‘Maham Anga, what you have said convinces me even more that I must break his hold over me.’

‘In the time of your grandfather and father, a man would have paid with his life for deceiving the emperor.’

‘What?’ Akbar stared at her aghast. ‘No. There is no question of that. I owe Bairam Khan everything and I would still trust him with my life. I do not even begrudge him the diamond necklace, however splendid. But I must be rid of his power over me. I must rule myself.’

Maham Anga seemed to reflect for a moment. ‘Well then. . When your father wished to be rid of your traitorous uncles he sent them on the pilgrimage to Mecca. Bairam Khan is in Delhi at the moment inspecting the defences, isn’t he? Send a letter to him there. Tell him how much you value his devotion to your interests but say that you fear he has been exhausting himself in the service of the empire. Say that you wish him to make the haj so that his mind and body may be refreshed and he may pray for the security and prosperity of the empire he has done so much to establish. You are the emperor. He must obey.’

Akbar leaned back against a bolster of dark orange silk and pondered. Maham Anga’s suggestion for getting rid of Bairam Khan was a good one. It would take him well over a year to complete the pilgrimage. He would have to travel to the coast of Gujarat, to the pilgrim port of Cambay, and there take ship to Arabia. At the other end, he would face a long overland journey through the desert to Mecca. By the time Bairam Khan eventually returned, Akbar would have taken control of every aspect of the government. He would be able to send his mentor into comfortable retirement on some rich estates that he would find for him.

But at the same time, another part of Akbar’s brain told him such a plan was dishonourable. He owed it to Bairam Khan to ride to Delhi and tell him face to face how he felt. Yet he had already tried that a dozen times. On each occasion, Bairam Khan had turned the conversation, leaving him outmanoeuvred. If he had his mother’s support in confronting him, it might be different, but Hamida had made her feelings clear. . wait, wait, wait. . Perhaps it was time to show her as well as Bairam Khan that he had come of age, that he could think and act for himself.

‘Maham Anga, be my scribe and write to Bairam Khan just as you said. But be sure to add also that I will always honour him. . that he has been like a father to me.’

‘Of course.’ Akbar watched Maham Anga go to a low, brass-inlaid rosewood table on which stood a jade inkpot and a quill and sit down cross-legged before it. Within moments, candlelight flickering over her strong, handsome features, she was penning the letter he hoped would set him free. He knew he could trust her to get the words right.