Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (40 page)

‘Perhaps.’

‘What’s the matter? You look as if your father had appointed you inspector of the Lahore latrines, rather than a man who’s just learned that his favourite wife is pregnant.’

Suleiman Beg could always lighten his mood, Salim thought. ‘You’re right, and I am pleased. So is Jodh Bai. It was hard for her to see me with two sons already, neither of them hers.’

‘And I’m right, aren’t I? She is your favourite.’

‘I suppose so. At least she can always make me laugh. Like you, she knows my moods and can tease me out of them. And unlike Man Bai or some of my other wives she never complains that I don’t spend enough time with her.’

‘What is it then? Why the reluctance to rejoice?’

Salim’s jaw tightened as he tried to answer that question as much for himself as his milk-brother. ‘It’s good to be the father of sons, of course it is. But what will I have to offer them? The same purposeless life that I lead? While we were with my father in Kashmir I thought he had changed towards me. He seemed to want my opinions, but since we’ve returned to Lahore he ignores me again. It’s all Abul Fazl.
He sits at my father’s right ear dripping unctuous words and I’m surer than ever he is to blame. He wants to exclude me and my half-brothers because he sees us as rivals for influence with my father.’

Suleiman Beg shrugged. ‘Perhaps your father thinks you’re still too young to take a hand in government.’

‘I’m a grown man. I’m a father. I’ve proved my courage in battle. I’ve been patient and dutiful. What more does he want? Sometimes I think he excludes me from important debates on purpose.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘Because he doesn’t know whether he wants me to succeed him. He’s reluctant to give me any real power or responsibility because he fears that will be a sign to me – and to others – that I am his chosen heir.’

‘You don’t know that. It might just be that he’s wary of giving up any power to anyone. How old is he?’

‘He’ll be forty-nine in October.’

‘There you are then. Though he looks so vigorous and strong he’s not a young man any more. In his heart he’ll know that and he probably resents you or anyone who might one day succeed him – he’s like the old tiger driven from his haunts by a younger male.’

‘How come you think you’re so knowledgeable?’

Suleiman Beg shrugged, then grinned, showing very white teeth. ‘My father’s almost exactly the same age and he’s the same. He does nothing but find fault with me, never asks my opinion about anything. I just keep out of his way. I wish your father would post him back to Bengal.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps my father doesn’t intentionally mean to slight me. He’s certainly shown no more favour to my half-brothers. Murad and Daniyal lead the same aimless lives as I do.’

‘But they continue to find ways of solacing themselves.’

‘What do you mean?’

Suleiman arched an eyebrow. ‘Surely you’ve heard the latest about their parties? Sometimes they’re too drunk to get themselves to bed. Their attendants often have to carry them back to their apartments and two weeks ago Murad nearly drowned when he collapsed into one of the water channels in the garden.’

‘Doesn’t their behaviour make you understand how I feel? I don’t want my sons to lead empty lives, not knowing what the future holds, and as a result succumb to the temptations that self-seeking people dangle before princes for their own purposes. I want to be emperor and give my sons the chance of fighting by my side as we expand and strengthen our empire.’

‘You’re too impatient. Your father may have many years to live.’

‘I pray he does. If you think I want my father out of this world and in Paradise you’re wrong. But I can’t live through many more years like this, with no way of achieving anything. I might just as well be one of my concubines lying on cushions all day and growing plump on sweetmeats, or one of the fat eunuchs who never draw a dagger or a sword. I’m a young man, a warrior, I need opportunities now. If my father shuts me out I have nothing. It’s not like the days of our ancestors when a Moghul prince could ride off in search of new lands where he could carve out a kingdom for himself as my great-grandfather Babur did. In his lifetime he ruled Ferghana, Samarkand and Kabul before he came near Hindustan. When he was half my age he’d already made his mark on the world.’

‘Highness . . .’ It was one of Salim’s
qorchis
. ‘Your wife Jodh Bai asks that you go to her.’

Salim nodded, and at the thought of Jodh Bai, her endearingly round little face even rounder with happiness as she’d told him the news of her pregnancy earlier that day, his own grim expression softened. He should be glad of what he had. And Suleiman Beg was right. Just as so many others had counselled him – Shaikh Salim Chishti, who now lay in a marble tomb in the courtyard of the mosque in Fatehpur Sikri, and his grandmother, and his great-aunt – he must learn patience.

‘I will go to her straight away. Suleiman Beg, when I return we’ll celebrate, as you suggest.’

‘And don’t forget one thing you already have over your father. It took him far longer than you to produce heirs . . .’

Akbar held his new grandson in his arms. ‘I name you Khurram, meaning “joyous”. May your life be so and may you bring joy to all around you. But more than that, may you make our empire yet greater.’ Akbar smiled down at Khurram’s tiny face, wizened like all newborn babies’, and tightened his grip on the small squirming body wrapped in green velvet that Salim had just placed in his arms. Then he looked up to address his courtiers and commanders. ‘The court astronomers tell me that the conjunction of the planets at the moment of Khurram’s birth three days ago was the same as at the birth of my great ancestor, Timur. That in itself is highly auspicious, but there is more: this is the millennium year of our Islamic calendar, while the month of my grandson’s birth is the same as that of the Prophet Muhammad. This child will, as Abul Fazl here has already recorded in the chronicles, be “a riband in the cap of royalty and more resplendent than the sun”.’

Salim’s face flushed with pride as he looked at Khurram. His father’s delight in this new grandson seemed to know no bounds. Just a few hours after the birth, having heard the astronomers’ excited comparisons with Timur’s birth, he had sent Salim a pair of matched black stallions and fine silks and perfume to Jodh Bai. The tenderness on his face as he held Khurram was something Salim had never witnessed and filled him with renewed hope. Surely this would bind him and his father closer together and help to assure his own succession. It seemed that God himself had spoken by bringing Khurram into the world on such a day.

Looking at his son in his father’s arms, Salim wished he could roll the years forward and see what those wrinkled features, those tiny limbs, would one day become. If the stargazers were correct this child would be a great warrior, a conqueror, a ruler whose name would pass down through time when others were forgotten.

Akbar was raising jewelled hands to signal he had more to say. ‘Because the omens surrounding the birth of this child are so special I have decided that I myself will rear him.’

Salim stared at Akbar as he struggled to take in what his father
was saying. Surely he didn’t mean . . .? But as he continued to listen to Akbar’s calm but authoritative voice, his father’s intentions were becoming clearer by the moment.

‘Prince Khurram will be placed in the care of one of my wives, Rukhiya Begum, in my
haram
so that I may see him at any hour of the day or night. As he begins to grow I will appoint special tutors to superintend his education but will also take a hand myself.’

Didn’t his father even trust him to bring up his own son? Salim stared at the ground, willing himself not to look at Akbar because of what he might say or do. The most senior members of the court were present, he told himself, driving the nails of one hand into the palm of another so hard that he thought he had drawn blood. Causing a disturbance was unthinkable. He tried to steady his thoughts and to control his breathing, which had suddenly become jerky, as if he could not draw in enough air. Then another thought struck him with sickening force. Was his father thinking of eventually naming Khurram as his heir? Surely not . . . Glancing sideways he caught Abul Fazl watching him. The chronicler’s small eyes looked interested, as if assessing how Salim was taking the news. What role had Abul Fazl played in this? Salim suddenly wondered. Was he encouraging Akbar to favour Khurram to extend the length of his time in power? He might seek to be regent if Khurram came to the throne in childhood. At the thought, such red-hot anger spurted through Salim that it was all he could do not to pull his dagger from his sash, spring forward and draw the blade across Abul Fazl’s fleshy throat.

But he would not give the chronicler the satisfaction of seeing how much his father had hurt him. He forced his features to look composed, but all the time his mind was racing, trying to work out the implications of Akbar’s theft of his son. It was little consolation that Khurram would have the best of everything and Rukhiya Begum was a kind woman. Salim had known her all his life. Plain-faced and grey-haired, she was Akbar’s cousin – the daughter of his long-dead uncle Hindal – and at least Akbar’s age.
She was also childless. Her marriage to Akbar – as with his marriages to so many in his vast
haram
– had probably barely been consummated. No, he need have no fears for Khurram. The victims were himself and Jodh Bai, who would be deprived of daily contact with their son . . .

At the thought of Jodh Bai, Salim’s jaw tightened. She had waited a long time for a child, and to have him given completely into the care of another would hurt her badly. Rukhiya Begum would appoint the child’s milk-mothers. Rukhiya Begum would be the one to watch Khurram’s daily progress. As soon as the celebration feast was over, Salim slipped away to find Jodh Bai in the
haram
. Her eyes were reddened with tears but she was not hysterical as Man Bai would have been had the newborn Khusrau been taken from her. She was sitting quietly on a yellow brocade divan, hands clasped together. Salim stooped and kissed her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what my father was planning.’

For a moment Jodh Bai said nothing. When she did speak, her voice was calm. ‘Your father has sent me another gift.’ Opening her hands she revealed what she had been clutching – a magnificent gold chain set with glowing rubies and large pearls. Armies had fought for less. ‘It’s beautiful, but I would rather the emperor had left me my son.’ She let the shining necklace trickle through her fingers on to the indigo carpet beneath her feet, where it lay like a jewelled snake.

‘One day, I promise you, I will find a way of making amends for this – and so will Khurram. He won’t always be a boy in his grandfather’s thrall and the bonds between a mother and her son are strong, whatever the circumstances.’ As he himself knew, thought Salim, as an image of Hirabai’s proud face, softening as she looked at him, came into his mind.

‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Jodh Bai asked, then shook her head as if impatient with herself. ‘Of course there isn’t. Your father is the emperor and it is a great honour that he should wish to bring up our child. I shouldn’t complain.’

Grief sat oddly on her round face, usually so alive with humour, and Salim felt tears prick his own eyelids – tears for her, tears of
frustration at his powerlessness. But he also felt a new resolve. Hide your feelings, he told himself; be patient. Your time will come . . . You will rule.

But as Salim reflected on those words over the months ahead they seemed to him ever more empty. His situation had less to do with patience than with powerlessness, he realised. Every day he had to live with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do. He was entirely dependent on Akbar, whose delight and interest in his grandson showed no sign of diminishing. Salim knew he should be pleased his father loved Khurram so much . . . that he mustn’t resent the fact that Akbar had never responded to him like that. But it was hard. So was having to endure the sight of Khurram, on his rare visits to Jodh Bai, twisting in her unfamiliar arms and bawling to be returned to the milk-mother Rukhiya Begum had appointed. Jodh Bai tried to hide her sorrow but it never left her, he was sure.