Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (44 page)

When Salim asked whether she still thought of her homeland, Anarkali had shrugged. ‘It seems long ago. I cry when I think of my poor father’s fate but had we stayed in Venice who knows what my life would have been – probably a loveless marriage to some rich old man of my father’s choosing. He already had such a plan. Now I live in luxury. I have jewels that would amaze the wealthiest Venetian noblewomen.’ For a moment a shadow had crossed her face, but then she had smiled at him. ‘And tonight a young prince strong as a stallion shares my bed – how could I be sad?’

Such smoothly flattering words came easily to Anarkali, thought Salim as sleep continued to elude him. All during their love-making she had praised his vigour and the pleasure he gave her, told him he was the greatest lover she had ever had. That everything she said must be artificial, that she probably had no real feelings for him at all, didn’t dim his passion for her. That was how she had been trained and how she had survived. But perhaps at this very moment she was whispering the same words to Akbar . . .

Salim sat up. He had come to a decision. He would have Anarkali again. There must be a way and he would find it.

‘There is an old sandstone pavilion hidden away in thick undergrowth on the bank of the Ravi river. It’s only half a mile from here. I
sometimes rest in its shade while out snipe hunting. Look . . .’ Salim scratched a map with charcoal on a piece of paper. ‘Bring Anarkali to me there tonight while my father is with the members of the
ulama
. He will hardly call for her to dance before his mullahs.’

‘Your meeting must be brief. Anarkali cannot be long gone from the
haram
while the emperor is here. And, Highness . . . this must be the last time. I cannot keep taking such risks . . . the danger is too great for us all.’ The
khawajasara
’s sharp nose was almost twitching with anxiety.

Salim nodded, though in his heart he had no intention of allowing it to be the last time. He would find other ways to outwit Akbar. ‘Take this. And mind you do not fail me.’ He pressed a bag of gold coins into her hand. ‘I will be waiting for you.’

That night, as velvet shadows stole along the riverbank, Salim pushed his way through the dry rustling reeds towards the pavilion. It must have been beautiful once. Slender columns and a shattered dome lay on the dry earth and, as he lit an oil lamp, the carving on a tumbled block of stone seemed to come to life. It was of a Hindu goddess or dancing girl, naked except for her jewels, voluptuous limbs moving in some joyful dance. It made him think of Anarkali’s sleek, full body and the many positions it could assume, and his pulses quickened.

He sat down with his back against a piece of masonry and waited, listening to the rippling of the Ravi. Some small creature – a mouse perhaps – skittered over his boot-clad feet and he slapped at a mosquito as he felt its sharp bite on the side of his neck. Glancing up he saw the moon had risen. It was nearly full, casting a warm, apricot glow over the night sky, and it meant that time was passing. He strained his ears, hoping to hear a soft footfall along the riverbank, but there was nothing. Perhaps something had happened, or the
khawajasara
’s courage had finally deserted her, but he wouldn’t give up yet, Salim thought. He continued to sit there, enjoying the beauty of the night and anticipating the moment when he would again bury his face beween those soft breasts. Even if the
khawajasara
had changed her mind about bringing Anarkali to him tonight he knew he could talk her round . . .

Then beyond the thick reed beds he made out a flickering light – a torch perhaps – and smiled. It was a little reckless of the
khawajasara
– surely there was enough moonlight to guide her steps – but she had never been to the pavilion before and was perhaps afraid of getting lost. Salim rose and peered harder in the direction of the light. He would go to find them. But as he picked his way out of the ruins and began pushing through the surrounding undergrowth he suddenly saw the light of several torches moving towards him. Almost simultaneously he caught the sound of male voices and of swift-moving feet crashing through the dry reeds.

What was happening? Had he been betrayed . . .? Feeling for the dagger in his sash, Salim turned, ready to sprint off into the darkness, but found a familiar figure blocking his way.

‘Highness, your father requests that you return at once to the palace.’ Abul Fazl’s small eyes glittered like jet in the light of the torch held by one of the guards who had just arrived behind him.

Shocked, Salim stood motionless. For once Abul Fazl wasn’t bothering to disguise his feelings and Salim had never seen him so joyously triumphant. He struggled to find words to express his hatred and contempt for this man but it was Abul Fazl who spoke again.

‘Highness, do you remember something you once said to me? I believe it was “I see you for what you are, and the day when my father sees it as well will be a good one.” Now it seems it will be the other way round. Your father is about to see you for what
you
are . . .’

‘Summon the whore.’ High on his throne, dressed in robes of such deep purple they were almost black, Akbar’s face as he looked down on his assembled courtiers was mask-like. Not by the flicker of a muscle did he acknowledge the presence of Salim, standing bare-headed below the dais and still dressed in the clothes in which he had gone to his rendezvous with Anarkali.

‘Father, let me speak . . .’

‘How dare you address me as Father when your actions show nothing but contempt for our relationship. Be silent or I will have
you silenced.’ Akbar’s voice was full of pent-up fury.

A few minutes later, through the double doors of the audience chamber, Anarkali appeared, pushed into the room by two bulky female
haram
guards. Her hands were bound and her yellow hair streamed over her shoulders. Her face was white except where kohl had mingled with her tears to leave dark tracks. Salim could see how violently she was trembling as she advanced slowly towards Akbar and threw herself on her knees before him.

‘You were my concubine, my favourite. I gave you everything you could desire yet you betrayed me as your emperor and as a man by giving yourself to this wretch who calls himself my son. There is only one penalty – death.’

Anarkali’s face contorted with fear and horror. A convulsive shudder ran through her as she tried to scramble to her feet. One of the female gaurds pushed her down again, jabbing her viciously in the small of the back with the end of her long wooden staff.

‘Please, Majesty . . .’

‘My ears are deaf to your pleas. I have decided your punishment. You will be placed in a small cell in the palace dungeons, which will then be bricked up. As minutes turn to hours, hours to days, and death draws near, you will have time to contemplate your crime.’

‘No! It was my fault, not hers. I desired her and bribed the
khawajasara
to bring her to me,’ Salim burst out.

‘I know,’ said Akbar, at last turning his gaze on Salim. ‘How do you think I learned of your despicable acts? The
khawajasara
herself came to Abul Fazl earlier tonight and confessed everything. I have been merciful to her . . . she died quickly. But this woman whom you are trying to defend has broken every rule of the imperial
haram
. She is lucky I do not have her flayed alive and her skin nailed to the palace gates.’ Akbar motioned to the captain of the guard. ‘Take her away.’

Two guards seized Anarkali, who began screaming and clutching at the carpet with her bound hands as if hoping that somehow she could cling on to it and delay the dreadful punishment Akbar had decreed. Salim looked away, unable to bear the sight of the beauty that had so tempted him and now as a consequence was to be
destroyed. The knowledge that there was nothing he could do or say to save her overwhelmed him. Only when Anarkali’s screams had finally receded and the doors had closed behind her did Salim again look up at his father. How cold he seemed, sitting there all-powerful on his glittering throne. What fate was he about to pronounce on his eldest son? Would his father take his life? For a moment Salim could almost feel the bite of cold steel on the back of his neck. He had always thought of his father, despite his faults, as honourable and just, but his terrible revenge on Anarkali had shaken that belief. Wronged as a man, he had lashed out as a man.

‘Salim, as you yourself have admitted, you are the guiltiest of all.’ After a pause, Akbar continued, ‘How can I ever again trust a son who betrays me in such a way? Your life is worthless to me and to the Moghul empire.’

Salim felt as if his throat was constricting but if he was to die he must not show fear, so he tried to match his father stare for stare.

‘You are still young and, unlike you, I place some value on our shared blood. My own mother has pleaded for you so I will be merciful. Tomorrow, you will set out for Kabul on an imperial inspection and there you will stay until I am ready to recall you. Your wives, your children and the rest of your household will remain here. Now go from my presence before I regret my mercy.’

‘You’re jealous of me because I am young and you are getting old. You cannot admit that you are mortal and fear that one day I will take your place on your throne as well as with your women,’ Salim wanted to shout, but what was the point? Turning on his heel, he walked slowly away down the carpet that was still marked by the tracks of Anarkali’s dragging feet. Was this the end of all his ambitions – if not of his life?

D
riving rain lashed the roof of Salim’s large tent as he tossed and turned beneath his fine cotton sheets and embroidered woollen Kashmiri blankets. His sleep was troubled as it had so often been since leaving Lahore some weeks earlier. Once more, Anarkali’s lovely face swam before him, warm, vital and alive. Except that by now she would be dead. As he watched, her face seemed to tauten and her skin to shrivel away, exposing her skull, which slowly crumbled to dust, leaving only two bright blue eyes to gaze on him reproachfully for a moment before they also dissolved into the darkness.

Salim woke with a start, clutching at his bedclothes. Guilt at Anarkali’s fate still weighed on him like a stone, exacerbated by his realisation after many sleepless nights that she had simply been an intoxicating plaything whom it had flattered his vanity to steal from Akbar. Perhaps if he had truly loved her his actions would seem less despicable to him. But he had carelessly and greedily helped himself to Anarkali, another human being, with no more thought than if he’d been plucking the ripest mango from the tree or the most tempting sweetmeat from the dish. Among his few comforts in his restless hours had been that – at least according to the message that had reached him from Hamida three days after he had ridden out from Lahore – Anarkali would not have suffered for long. His resourceful grandmother had written that she had found a way of
smuggling a phial of poison to her as he had begged her to. He hoped this was true and that his grandmother was not merely seeking to console him.

The enormity of what had happened and its consequences swept over him once more. His melancholy thoughts turned to his own position, hundreds of miles from his family and the centre of power at the court, and on his way to banishment beyond the Khyber Pass at the very edge of the Moghul empire. Not only had he caused Anarkali’s death by his lustful provoking of his father but there was little chance now that he would fulfil Shaikh Salim Chishti’s prophecy that one day he would become emperor. Surely all his hopes and expectations were dust . . . If his half-brothers had even a shred of ambition they would be able to profit from his absence to promote their claims to Akbar above his. And what if his father were to die suddenly? Abul Fazl and his cronies would have settled the succession before news of his father’s death had even reached him.

As the howling wind began to buffet and bow the heavy fabric of his tent Salim, in an effort to distract himself from such depressing thoughts, started to plan his onward journey. Yesterday he and his three hundred and fifty men had crossed the cold churning waters of the Indus at Attock. A young pack elephant had panicked when the raft on which it was standing had collided with another in midstream. It had tumbled in and the strong currents had carried it away, still trumpeting in terror, together with its load of precious cooking equipment. Yet despite the dangers the remainder of the party had crossed safely to the north bank.