Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (33 page)

‘Our Catholic Inquisitors are skilled in such matters, Majesty, just as your investigators are. Only last week I saw two suspected thieves being buried up to their arms in hot sand to make them confess to their misdeeds. I see no difference.’

‘The difference lies in whether a crime has been committed. In the case of the thieves, undoubtedly a felony had taken place and the magistrates were attempting to discover the truth. But does one religion have the right to force its opinions on another? Isn’t that the question we should be addressing? In my realms, I do not distinguish between men because of their religion. My advisers, my commanders and even my wives are not all of my own faith.’

The Jesuits looked grave and Salim could see Shaikh Ahmad vigorously shaking his head and muttering something to another of the
ulama
, but no one spoke.

‘Let us extend our enquiry . . .’ Akbar continued, seemingly content that the import of his words had sunk in. ‘You have told me your beliefs, but let us now hear from one of these Protestants you were speaking of with such disdain . . . I wish to question the Englishman John Newberry. One of my scholars, a Turk, knows his language and can translate.’

The red-headed Englishman looked as confident as a turkey cock and about as truculent, Salim thought, as he strutted forward, the Turkish interpreter by his side.

‘What is your religion, John Newberry? Tell the assembled people just as you have told me in private.’

The merchant muttered a few words to the Turk who began to translate in a somewhat hesitant voice. ‘I am English and a Protestant and proud to be both.’

‘You told me that your queen is the head of your religion. Explain to us how that came about.’

Again more whispering between Newberry and the Turk, but the interpreter seemed to be gaining in confidence and, though having to pause every few seconds for fresh information, was soon able to keep up a smooth commentary. ‘When he was very young, Her Majesty’s father, our great King Henry, married a princess who had once been betrothed to his brother. However, as the years passed and she bore him only one surviving child – a daughter – he realised that by wedding his brother’s affianced bride he had sinned in the eyes of God. He sought to remedy the ill by divorcing her but the Pope – whom these Jesuits revere so much – refused to allow it. Our king decided that he could not permit such interference in the governing of his kingdom. He declared himself the head of the church in England, divorced his wife and married the woman who gave birth to our present great and blessed queen, Elizabeth.’

‘You have told me your religion allows a man only one wife, but I have heard that this King of England, Henry, took six wives. How? Are there different rules for a king in your country?’

‘No, Majesty. Our queen’s mother was found guilty of adultery – it was even said she was a witch – and executed. The king married yet again but his third queen died when her son was not two weeks old. He divorced his fourth wife – a foreign princess – because she did not please his eye. His fifth wife – young and beautiful but sadly not virtuous – also fell into the snare of adultery and was beheaded on his orders. But the king’s sixth and final wife, a modest matron, outlived him.’

‘Your king might have saved himself some trouble had he followed our path and taken more than one wife at a time. And it seems he did not guard his
haram
well . . .’ A ripple of laughter went around the hall of worship, but neither the Englishman nor the Jesuits were smiling as the Turk translated Akbar’s words.

‘Tell me about your queen, John Newberry. Are the men of your country content to be ruled by a woman?’

‘She is loved by our people because she protects us from the Catholic menace and keeps us free.’

‘Has she no husband?’

‘She glories in being a virgin. Many foreign princes have wooed her but she says England is her bridegroom.’

‘Is she beautiful?’

‘She is more than beautiful – she is glorious.’

Salim saw Father Antonio whispering urgently into Father Francisco’s ear and after a few moments the latter stepped forward. ‘If I might speak, Majesty,’ he said in his smooth court Persian. ‘You are in danger of being misled by this merchant. This queen of England was born of a sinful union between a king inflamed by lust and a proven whore. This Elizabeth is not the legitimate ruler of her country – which by rights should be ruled by the Catholic King of Spain – but a bastard heretic leading her country to eternal damnation. Our master the Pope in Rome has cast her out and she will burn for ever.’

The Turk was translating all this for Newberry, whose already crimson countenance was darkening as he took in what the priest had said, but Salim saw that Akbar was starting to look bored. His father enjoyed philosophical debate rather than the trading of insults, and Salim was not surprised when he rose abruptly.

‘Enough. We will resume our enquiries another day,’ he said, and swept from the chamber.

It was a perfect autumn day. Sunlight filtered through the dense foliage of the forest as the beaters advanced, banging their gongs and shouting to drive the game ahead of them. Salim enjoyed the rhythmic motion as the elephant bearing him and his three attendants plodded on. Some ten yards ahead he could see his father’s elephant, Lakna, left hind leg scored by the claws of a male tiger many years earlier. Lakna was Akbar’s favourite hunting elephant. He had captured him himself, while still a youth, from a herd of wild elephants, then tamed him.

Salim had watched his father fearlessly break other elephants. It was a dangerous business requiring two men, each perched on a tame elephant on either side of the wild beast. Once in position,
their task was to fling a noose of stout rope round the neck of the wild elephant and secure it to the neck of their own mount. Then, by progressively tightening the noose, they were able gradually to calm the beast and bring it under control. Salim had seen many good men killed during the process. It was easy to fall off and what chance did a man have beneath the feet of an enraged elephant? Several times he had heard the sickening squelch of a body trampled beneath a heavy grey foot. Even after the initial subduing, months of hard work remained, training the beast to advance to order by throwing fodder down on the ground before it. But Lakna had served Akbar well, and amply repaid the time he had spent.

The temperature was rising and a bead of salty sweat ran into the corner of Salim’s mouth. He flicked it away with the tip of his tongue. Soon the circle of beaters, who had been closing in since dawn, would be tight enough and the hunt would begin. Glancing over his shoulder he saw his
qorchi
was following close behind on a horse and leading his own black stallion in case he should wish to exchange the elephant for a faster mount. His heart was thudding with the excitement he always felt in the hunt. He was a good marksman – equally accurate with musket or arrow – and perhaps today he would impress his father. He would like to have been riding with him on Lakna in the golden howdah festooned with green ribbons, but as usual the bulky figure of Abul Fazl was by Akbar’s side.

The brief shadow that fell on Salim’s spirits as he watched his father’s elephant advance into a particularly thickly wooded part of the forest passed quickly. He must continue to do as Shaikh Salim Chishti had told him – wait and watch and learn and all would come right. And it was good that his father had invited him on the hunt. Hearing a sudden shouting from up ahead, Salim reached over his shoulder to check that his quiver and bow were in place and then ran his hand over the smooth steel barrel of his musket, a beautiful weapon inlaid with triangles of mother-of-pearl. Yes, he was ready.

But then he realised that the shouts were more than a cry for the hunt to begin and were growing louder. Among them he could
make out the words, ‘His Majesty is ill! Fetch the
hakims
!’ There was a sudden thudding of hooves and two of Akbar’s mounted bodyguard burst through the foliage ahead of him and galloped off towards the back of the line where the court
hakims
who always accompanied the hunt were travelling in their bullock cart.

‘What is it? What’s happened to my father?’ Salim shouted but in the confusion no one was attending to him. Heart pounding, he climbed over the edge of his howdah and lowered himself on two gilded straps until he was close enough to the ground to jump lightly down. Dodging more riders and a group of beaters, metal gongs now silent in their hands, Salim ran forward. His father’s elephant Lakna was on its knees and beside the great grey shape Salim saw a group of men clustered around a supine figure. Forcing his way through, Salim saw Akbar lying on his back, body arching as spasms rocked it. As Salim stared, he found himself repeating over and over, ‘Please God, not yet.’ His ambitions and his fears for the future no longer seemed to matter.

Akbar was thrashing more wildly, and red blood mingling with a dribble of spittle oozing from his mouth showed that he had bitten his tongue. Salim watched helplessly. In his mind’s eye he already saw himself standing beside Murad and Daniyal at their father’s funeral. He heard Hamida’s and Gulbadan’s wails of grief and saw the smile curving his mother’s lips at the knowledge that the man she regarded as the enemy of her people was dead.

Abul Fazl was loosening the turquoise clasps of his father’s tunic, fingers trembling. ‘Stand back, all of you, give His Majesty some air . . .’ he was saying. At that moment one of the bodyguards returned, a white-robed, white-turbaned
hakim
mounted behind him. The crowd parted to let the doctor through. He was a young, sharp-featured man whose intelligent brown eyes seemed to take in the situation at once.

Dropping to his knees beside Akbar he seized his arms and held them steady. ‘You!’ he shouted without ceremony to Abul Fazl. ‘Hold His Majesty’s legs to help calm him. And you there,’ he nodded at another courtier, ‘fold a clean piece of linen – handkerchief, face cloth, whatever comes to hand – and ram it hard between His Majesty’s jaws or he may bite through his tongue.’

‘
Hakim
, what can I do for my father?’ Salim asked.

The doctor glanced round. ‘Nothing,’ he said tersely and turned back to his patient. Salim hesitated a moment, then getting to his feet pushed his way through the onlookers. If he couldn’t help he would rather not watch.

The sunlight that had seemed so full of promise for a good day’s sport barely half an hour ago as it shafted through the canopy of leaves was now lighting the forest floor with a harsh, metallic brightness. Salim wandered away through a patch of low, scrubby bushes, neither noticing nor caring where his feet were taking him. Reaching a clearing he paused, and more by instinct than anything else suddenly became aware of a pair of bright eyes watching him through some branches. It was a young deer, the velvet mantling on its antlers the very palest brown. Slowly Salim reached behind him for his bow but then stopped. What was the point? There was enough death in the world.

Almost at once the deer bounded away. Salim listened to the sounds of the frightened animal crashing through the scrub and then turned to retrace his own steps. Whatever was happening to his father, he must face up to it and any implications it had for him. He couldn’t hide in the forest like a dumb beast and anyway in a few moments he would be missed – imperial princes couldn’t wander off on their own unnoticed. But he dreaded what he would see as he emerged once more into the open. The
hakim
was standing up now with a crowd gathered around him, listening to what he had to say. But where was Akbar? Salim broke into a run.

As he drew closer, staring around him in panic, he saw his father sitting propped against a tree trunk, Abul Fazl holding a flask of water to his lips. His bodyguards had formed a protective circle around them but they parted as Salim ran up. ‘Father . . .’ He was half-sobbing with relief to see Akbar, a little paler than usual and long dark hair dishevelled, but otherwise much as usual. The bright eyes that he now turned on his son had lost none of their disconcerting penetration.

‘There is no need for concern. I have had a vision – a direct communication with God. I felt my whole body shaking with joy,
and God revealed to me what I must do. We are abandoning the hunt and returning at once to Fatehpur Sikri, where I have an announcement to make to my people. Go now, and let me rest.’

Salim turned away, feeling that his father had somehow rebuffed him. If his father had received some divine revelation why wouldn’t he share it with him? Did he think he was not to be trusted? Glancing round, he saw the man whom just a little while ago he had thought close to death whispering with Abul Fazl and realised that all the anxiety he had felt had turned to nothing more noble than resentment. He was angry with himself, but angrier still with Akbar.