Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (41 page)

All the time, Salim’s thoughts had kept returning to Abul Fazl, surely the author of so many things that had happened to frustrate his hopes. And if he’d needed any further proof that this man was his enemy, he’d just received it, Salim thought as on a warm summer’s day he strode towards Abul Fazl’s apartments in the Lahore fort.

‘Highness, you honour me by your visit. I was just recording in the chronicle His Majesty’s departure to Agra to inspect the rebuilding of the fort.’ Abul Fazl rose to his feet as Salim was ushered in. A polite smile was spread across his fleshy features but the small eyes looked watchful.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t gone with him.’

‘His Majesty will be away for nearly two months. He wished me to remain in Lahore so I could report anything of which he needed to be aware.’ Abul Fazl’s smooth, reasonable tone and his even smoother smile never failed to set Salim on edge but for once he felt no compulsion to hide his feelings.

‘I have just heard that my half-brother Murad has been appointed Governor of Malwa and Gujarat.’

‘Indeed, Highness. He is to leave Lahore to take up his new position in a month’s time.’

‘That is the post I asked my father to give me. He told me he would think about it. What happened?’

Abul Fazl spread his hands. ‘His Majesty can best answer that question. You know that he appoints all the governors of our provinces himself.’

‘I can’t ask him. As you yourself observed, he isn’t here. That’s why I’m asking you. You are his mouth and ears. I thought you knew everything.’

Salim’s tone was contemptuous. Yet he could see that instead of being offended, Abul Fazl was battling with his vanity. It hurt the man to pretend he didn’t know what was going on and it seemed he was prepared to lose that battle without too much of a struggle. His heavy-featured face eased into a smile. ‘What I can say is that His Majesty decided that Prince Murad would be well suited to the post.’

‘Better suited than me?’ If the increasingly colourful stories circulating the court were true, Murad was often too drunk to stand unaided.

‘I am sure Your Highness would also make an excellent governor,’ said Abul Fazl, evading the question.

‘Did my father ask your advice on the appointment?’

Abul Fazl hesitated a moment. ‘As I said before, His Majesty takes such decisions himself. My role is simply to record them.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Highness?’ Abul Fazl looked truly shocked. It occurred to Salim that over the many years the chronicler had served his father, they had almost never been alone together. The knowledge that Akbar was far from the court was liberating and Salim persisted with what he had started, not just the frustration of this latest matter of the governorship but the resentments and suspicions of years urging him on.

‘I said that I don’t believe you. My father consults you on everything and will have done so over appointing a governor in Malwa and Gujarat.’

Abul Fazl’s smile faded. ‘My discussions with your father are confidential. It would be a breach of trust for me to say more. You should know that, Highness.’

There was no unctuousness now in Abul Fazl’s voice and for the first time Salim sensed how formidable this man was. But he would not be deterred. ‘I know my father holds you in high esteem.’

‘As I do him. I am his loyallest subject.’ Abul Fazl’s voice was steely.

‘But shouldn’t your loyalty extend to the rest of my father’s family?’ Salim seized Abul Fazl by the shoulders and stared him in the face. ‘I am his eldest son, but ever since I began to grow up you’ve schemed to keep us apart. If it wasn’t for you, my father would have invited me to the meetings of his war council as a matter of course. You encouraged him to exclude me. Don’t deny it.’

Abul Fazl didn’t flinch but replied in a level tone, looking Salim steadily in the eye, ‘I have always given His Majesty the best advice I could. If you want to know the truth, he didn’t invite you because he didn’t think your presence would be useful. As he himself told me, you disappoint him.’

Salim let go of Abul Fazl. Those brief but brutal words wounded him more than any weapon could ever do. Hadn’t he always feared he’d never live up to his father’s expectations, however hard he tried . . .? Suddenly, just as when Akbar announced he was going to bring up Khurram, Salim became aware of Abul Fazl’s hungry scrutiny, as if he wanted to observe every painful emotion passing through him. He must not let Abul Fazl feed his fears, nor must he show him his comments had hurt. Pulling himself together, he said, ‘You have always tried to create mischief between me and my father, and if you hadn’t always been there at his side he and I would have got to understand one another better. You may be loyal to him, as you say, but only because that best serves your interests. Know this. I see you for what you are, and the day when my father sees it as well will be a good one.’

They were eyeing each other now like enemies on the battlefield, but Salim knew that to strike Abul Fazl would only strengthen the chronicler’s position when he reported their confrontation to his
father. Perhaps what he’d already said had been unwise but he couldn’t regret it. From now on the chronicler might be more wary of the emperor’s eldest son. As for himself, he would watch Abul Fazl to find some evidence of corruption and self-interest, and when he found it he would act. Turning on his heel, he walked quickly from the apartment out into the sunlit palace courtyard. Glancing back, he saw Abul Fazl watching him from the casement window.

‘W
hat’s the matter? You’ve been preoccupied all afternoon. I thought you’d have so much to tell me.’

‘I have. Abul Fazl will soon be returning to court from the tour of inspection in Delhi my father sent him on,’ said Salim to Suleiman Beg, as they rode slowly into the shallows of the Ravi river to allow the steaming horses they had just raced along its banks to cool off. Suleiman Beg had been with his father in the Punjab and they hadn’t seen one another for some months.

‘So what? You’re obsessed with him.’

‘I have good cause.’

‘Just because he’s ambitious and relishes being your father’s confidant doesn’t make him your enemy.’

‘He fears me – and my brothers – as rivals, I’m sure of it. That’s why he reports every fault, every indiscretion of Murad and Daniyal to my father – don’t interrupt me, Suleiman Beg, I know he does. I’ve heard him do it.’

‘Perhaps he regards it as his duty. Your brothers are idiots.’

‘That’s not the point. What matters is that he tries to damage me as well in my father’s eyes.’

‘He’s never told your father about your argument with him . . . not in the whole two years since it happened, has he?’

‘My father’s never said anything. But maybe Abul Fazl thought it didn’t reflect well on him either.’

‘Or perhaps he’s learned his lesson.’

‘No. He still tries to exclude me from everything. You weren’t at court when my father told me that having conquered Sind he intended to send a Moghul army to seize Kandahar.’ Salim’s horse lowered its head to drink the muddy river water and he gently stroked its sweat-mottled neck. ‘I begged my father to let me go on the campaign as one of the commanders . . . I argued that I’d proved myself in Kashmir and deserved further opportunities. I even said it was a matter of family honour – we lost Kandahar to the Persians when my grandfather Humayun died and it was right that his eldest grandson should help win it back.’

‘And?’

‘He was so full of his victory in Sind I thought he was going to agree but then he said he wished to consult his war council. It was Abul Fazl who next day brought me my father’s decision – that I lacked the experience for such a distant campaign. My father’s message ended with the usual words – “don’t be impatient”. But I know whose message it really was.’

‘You don’t know that. Maybe your father was concerned for your safety.’

‘Or maybe Abul Fazl didn’t want me to share in the glory . . . Nearly every day post riders have been bringing reports of the successful advance of our troops, of how they have already subdued the Baluchi tribes infesting the mountain passes leading to Kandahar and are advancing on the city itself. Last night came a despatch from Abdul Rahman, my father’s
khan-i-khanan
, that the Persian commander of Kandahar was about to surrender.’

‘That’s wonderful news. If it’s true, it means your father has extended the empire’s northern frontiers yet again . . . he now rules from Kandahar down to the Deccan in the south, from Bengal in the east to Sind in the west . . . Our forces are invincible. Who can challenge the Moghuls now?’ But the enthusiasm on Suleiman Beg’s face died as he took in Salim’s bleak expression.

‘It is good news, of course it is. My father is a great man – I
know it and everybody else keeps telling me it. He has raised our dynasty to heights known to no other. But it would have been even better if I could have had a share in the action instead of sitting around always hoping for a chance to prove myself that never comes . . .’ So saying, Salim yanked his reins so hard his horse whinnied in protest. Then, wheeling his mount in the shallow water, he kicked sharply with his heels and without waiting for Suleiman Beg set off back towards the Lahore fort where his father was no doubt already beginning his meticulous planning of the grandiose celebrations he would hold to mark the capture of Kandahar. How could a man like Akbar, who from youth had known only success and glory, possibly understand the yawning emptiness, the futility of his own existence?

It was May. In just a few days the monsoon would begin and the heat was intense as musicians playing long brass pipes and beating drums suspended on thongs round their necks led the procession from the
haram
quarters within the Lahore palace out into the city. Next marched the eight bodyguards assigned to guard Akbar’s beloved grandson Khurram from the day of his birth. Then, mounted on matching cream-coloured ponies, came eight-year-old Khusrau and six-year-old Parvez, egrets’ feathers nodding in their tightly bound silk turbans.

Standing with some of Akbar’s most senior courtiers and commanders to the left-hand side of the carved sandstone entrance to the imperial school, Salim thought how serious his two elder sons looked, how stiffly they sat in their saddles. They weren’t used to such ceremonials. Much as their grandfather loved them, he had never put on such a show to mark the start of their formal education which, in line with Moghul tradition for the rearing of royal princes, began at the age of four years, four months and four days – Khurram’s exact age today. Beyond Khusrau and Parvez, Salim could see the baby elephant on which Khurram was riding and which Akbar himself was leading with a golden chain attached to the animal’s jewelled headplate. Immediately behind came the captain of Akbar’s
own bodyguard, carrying the yak’s tail standard that since early times had been a symbol of Moghul rule.

Khurram himself was in an open howdah of beaten silver set with turquoises – a stone that Timur himself had loved to wear. A parasol of green silk embroidered with pearls and held aloft by the attendant riding behind him in the howdah protected him from the hot sunlight shafting down from a completely clear blue sky. Salim felt sweat running between his shoulder blades, though he too was protected by a silk canopy. But as the procession drew nearer, Salim realised that despite the heat his youngest son was relishing the occasion. Unlike his elder brothers he didn’t seem to find his elaborate clothes – a gold brocade coat and green pantaloons – uncomfortable. Gems sparkled round his neck and on his fingers and in the tiny ceremonial dagger tucked into his sash. Though he looked like a little bejewelled doll he was clearly enjoying himself, smiling and looking anything but nervous, waving to the straining, cheering crowds being held back by soldiers.

A large red and blue Persian carpet had been spread out in front of the school steps. Some twenty paces away from them, the musicians fell silent and the procession divided to one side or the other leaving Akbar and Khurram on his baby elephant alone in front of the school. Akbar advanced to the very centre of the carpet, and after a quick glance at his grandson to assure himself that the boy was seated securely, addressed Salim and the assembled members of his court.

‘I have invited you here to witness an important event. My beloved grandson Prince Khurram will today begin his education. I have assembled the best scholars from within my empire and beyond. They will instruct him in every subject from literature and mathematics to astronomy and the history of his forebears, and will guide him on the journey from boyhood to manhood.’

Yes, thought Salim, and they included Abul Fazl’s father Shaikh Mubarak, who was to instruct Khurram about religion. Abul Fazl himself was standing just a few paces away, his usual leather-bound ledger beneath his right arm, doubtless ready to compose some florid verses about the occasion. As if aware of Salim’s scrutiny, the chronicler
returned his stare, then looked away again. Salim returned his attention to his father.

‘The prince has already shown signs of exceptional ability,’ Akbar was saying. ‘My astrologers predict that he will achieve great things. Come, Khurram, it is time.’