Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (30 page)

‘Tell your great-aunt about the Persian who has arrived at court.’

‘Did your father agree to help this Ghiyas Beg?’ Gulbadan asked when Salim had finished.

‘Yes. He gave him a post in Kabul.’

‘Your father is a good judge of character,’ Gulbadan said, ‘but it wasn’t always so. As a young man he could be rash and too easily influenced by those around him. But he has learned to be more careful. Observe him, Salim. Ask him the reasons behind his decisions . . . try to learn from him.’

That was easy for her to say, Salim thought. But what he said
was, ‘I often go to the audience chamber and watch my father seated on his throne on top of the carved column. But it puzzles me how anyone dares to approach him. He looks so remote – almost godlike . . .’

‘It is a ruler’s duty to inspire confidence, to show that he is ready to listen,’ said Hamida. ‘People approach him because they trust him, as you should.’

‘Your grandmother is right,’ said Gulbadan. ‘A ruler must demonstrate to his people that he cares for them. That’s why every day at dawn your father steps out on to the
jharoka
balcony to show himself to his subjects. It is to prove to them not just that their emperor still lives but also that he is concerned for them, watching over them like a father . . .’

He actually is my father, Salim thought, so why do I find it so hard to talk to him? Every time he was with Akbar it seemed to him that his father was examining and probing him, critically testing his merits and his knowledge.

‘Salim, what’s the matter? You look sad,’ said Hamida.

‘You tell me to talk to my father but it’s hard . . . I don’t know whether he’d welcome it. He always seems so immaculate, so perfect in dress and behaviour, and so busy, surrounded by his courtiers and his commanders. Sometimes he does come to watch me at my studies but when he asks me questions I feel confused . . . stupid . . . so worried that what I say won’t be good enough that I can’t answer at all. I know I disappoint him.’

‘Is that all?’ Hamida was smiling. ‘Don’t be so foolish. Remember your father is my son. He was not always this imposing presence. He was once a boy like you, grazing his knees and tearing his clothes in rough games and exercises with his companions and – if the truth be told – not half so good at his lessons or curious about the world around him as you are! And I know how proud he is of you. You should feel inferior to no one!’

Salim smiled back but said nothing. How could they understand? How could anybody, when he didn’t understand his feelings himself?

‘I am pleased to see you, Salim. Come with me up to the roof. I was about to pray.’

Salim followed his mother up the winding flight of sandstone stairs. The light from the clay oil lamp in Hirabai’s right hand was just enough for him to see where he was going, though once he turned a corner too sharply and tripped. Stepping out on to the flat roof of her palace he saw that his mother, long dark hair intertwined with white jasmine flowers, was already kneeling before a small shrine. It was a warm, windless evening and glancing up into the heavens Salim saw the pale sliver of the crescent moon.

Hirabai was bending low in prayer. Although she sometimes spoke of her Hindu beliefs, they still seemed strange to him, raised a Muslim believing in one God and unused to idols and images. At last she was finished, and rising she turned to Salim. ‘Look at the moon. We Rajputs are its children by night and the offspring of the sun by day. The moon gives us our limitless endurance and the sun our indomitable courage.’ Hirabai’s dark eyes flickered as she looked at him. Salim could feel the intensity of her love for him and wished she would embrace him, but that was not her way and her arms remained by her sides.

‘Mother, you always talk about the Rajputs, but I’m a Moghul too, aren’t I?’ Salim had come to his mother hoping that perhaps she might help him understand the confusions and uncertainties that seemed to be crowding in around him. And he had come alone, slipping away from the attendants who, he suspected, were under orders to report what they saw and heard to Akbar.

‘To my great sorrow you have been brought up as a Moghul prince. Your tutors have stuffed your ears with tales of the valour of your great-grandfather Babur and of your grandfather Humayun – how they crossed the Indus river and conquered an empire.’

‘But my father is the Moghul Emperor of Hindustan. Surely I need to know the history of his people?’

‘Of course. But you also need to be told the truth. Your tutors praise the bravery and daring of the Moghul clans but never say that they stole from the Rajputs what was rightfully theirs.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have been brought up by your father to believe this land is yours – but he is deceiving you just as through blind pride and arrogance he deceives himself. The truth is that Moghuls are no more than cattle thieves who sneak among the herds at night to steal the property of others. They took advantage of a moment of weakness in Hindustan to invade. They claimed that Timur’s conquest of Hindustan gave them the right to rule, but who was he but another uncouth barbarian raider from the north?

‘It is my people, the Rajputs – your people too, Salim – who are the true, indeed the sacred rulers of Hindustan. Just before Babur and his hordes poured down into our land from their mountainous wildernesses, the Rajput kings under Rana Sanga of Chittorgarh were forming an alliance to depose the weak, luxury-loving Lodi rulers and take Hindustan back for our people. Perhaps we had angered the gods and the Moghul invaders were our punishment, but we have paid in blood for any offence we gave.

‘Even after the Moghuls defeated the Lodi dynasty at Panipat, our people did not flinch from their warrior destiny. Babur derided them as infidels but they showed him how the Hindu warrior caste could fight. They attacked him at Khanua and nearly defeated him.’ Hirabai’s eyes glittered as if she too were a Rajput warrior bent on spilling blood.

‘You asked me whether you are a Moghul. You are – but only in part. Never forget that you are my son as well as Akbar’s and that royal Rajput blood – a thousand times more noble than Moghul blood – beats in your veins. The destiny that awaits you may not be the one you think . . . Just as your father can choose which son he names as his heir, you have a choice too . . .’

Salim stood in silence, too confused to know what he thought. Where did the truth lie between his mother’s bewailing of the fate of her people and his tutors’ glorious tales of the Moghuls? And where did it leave him? Was his mother hinting that his father might not choose his eldest son as his heir at the same time as suggesting that Salim might have to choose between his Moghul ancestry and his Rajput inheritance? But the latter made no sense, especially when he thought about his father’s pronouncements that all were equal
within the empire and about the many Rajputs who served Akbar.

‘But Mother, members of your own family, the royal house of Amber, are in the service of the Moghuls – like your brother Bhagwan Das and your nephew Man Singh. They wouldn’t join my father if they thought it dishonourable.’

‘People can always be bought . . . even Rajput nobility. I am ashamed of my brother and my nephew.’ Hirabai’s voice was cold and he could see that unwittingly he had offended her. ‘Leave me now, but think on my words.’

She turned away from him, back to her shrine, and kneeling down again within the halo of light from a circle of wicks burning in
diyas
began once more to pray. Salim hesitated a moment, then made his way slowly to the stone staircase and down to the courtyard below, Hirabai’s contempt for his father and the Moghuls still ringing in his ears. He had hoped for some answers from her but instead his head only echoed with fresh questions about who he was and who he would become.

‘W
here did you get those?’

Salim glared at Murad. Two pigeons, purple throats crimson with blood, were hanging from his half-brother’s silver belt, but Salim’s eyes were fixed on the double bow he was holding in one hand and the gilded quiver of arrows in the other.

Murad grinned. ‘I found them lying in the courtyard. I thought you didn’t want them . . .’

‘You mean you stole them.’

Murad’s smile faded and he drew himself up. Though eleven months younger he was nearly two inches taller than Salim. ‘I’m not a thief. How was I supposed to know you still wanted them? You never come to the courtyard to join us in our exercises and trials of strength as you used to. You’re always skulking away somewhere. Daniyal and I hardly ever see you any more. Father says . . .’

Salim took a step closer. ‘What does he say?’ His voice was low and his narrowed eyes were fixed on his brother’s face.

Murad looked a little taken aback. ‘Nothing really . . . except that you spend too much time on your own. He was here just a while ago, watching me practise my archery. When I shot down the pigeons with this bow he said I was as skilful as he was at my age.’ He beamed with pride.

‘Give me back my bow and arrows.’

‘Why should I? You only want them now because I like them and can use them so well.’

‘I want them because they’re mine.’

‘Take them, then – if you can.’ Murad thrust out his square jaw.

Salim felt a surge of anger, and needing no further encouragement launched himself at his half-brother. Though Murad was heavier, he was the quicker. Using his momentum he pushed Murad to the ground, then leaping on top straddled him, locking his thighs hard against Murad’s ribs. Murad tried to poke his fingers into his eyes but he jerked back just in time and then got a hand on either side of his brother’s face. Grabbing hold of Murad’s long black hair he yanked his head up then thumped it hard against the paving stones. There was a satisfying crack and as he pulled Murad’s head up again to repeat the process he saw a thin smear of dark red blood on the stones.

‘Highnesses, stop!’ Hearing agitated voices and feet running swiftly towards them, Salim crashed his brother’s head once more against the stones. Then he felt strong arms pulling him off his brother. Glancing up, he saw it was Murad’s tutor. The man carried him a few steps away then released him. Panting hard and wiping the sweat from his face, Salim had the satisfaction of seeing Murad still lying groaning on the ground. That would teach him to challenge his older brother.

Daniyal had come running into the courtyard. His eyes in his round face looked startled but it seemed to Salim that his younger half-brother was looking at him with some admiration. At least he knew how to fight . . . But as he looked round at Murad, who was sitting up now and holding his bleeding head in his hands, some of his elation began to ebb to be replaced by shame that he had lost his temper so completely. If he was honest, it wasn’t the fact that Murad had taken his bow and arrows that had so enraged him, even though they had been a gift from Akbar. It was hurt that his father should criticise him to Murad – and jealousy that they could even have such a conversation.

‘What has been going on?’ Hearing his father’s deep voice, Salim looked round and his heart began to pound.

‘He called me a thief!’ Then he attacked me as if he wanted to kill me,’ said Murad, who was now on his feet. ‘All because I borrowed his bow and arrows.’

‘You stole them. Then you said if I wanted them back I must take them. But keep them if they are so important to you.’

‘You are brothers. Salim, you in particular as the eldest should know better. Such scuffling isn’t seemly.’ Akbar’s tone was severe. ‘You both deserve to be punished for brawling like urchins from the bazaar. This time I will overlook it, but do not let it happen again or you will not find me so lenient. As for this bow and these arrows which have caused so much trouble, let me see them.’

Murad brought them over and Akbar inspected them carefully. ‘I recognise them now. These were my gift to you, Salim, weren’t they? As I told you, they were crafted by a Turkish master from the very finest materials.’

‘He’d just left them in the courtyard . . . he never used them . . . if it had rained they’d have been ruined.’ Murad’s tone was all self-righteousness.

Salim looked stonily ahead. How could he defend himself when Murad’s accusation was true? He had been careless with Akbar’s gift.

Akbar was looking at him, perplexed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like them. I will keep them for my own use.’

Salim knew his father was waiting for him to say something, to offer some explanation. He wanted so badly to speak but somehow the words wouldn’t come. All he could manage was a faint shrug of his shoulders which he was sure looked like defiance rather than regret.