Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Put the poor beast out of its misery,’ he commanded one of his bodyguards, ‘and do the same for any others that cling to life.’ As he gave these orders Akbar saw that in the remains of an elephant’s gilded howdah a few yards away a young man was bending over the body of a small figure in engraved steel armour which from its magnificence could only belong to Hemu. The youth was using a bloodstained cloth to dab at the left side of the face of the wounded man, who was shouting at him, ‘Leave me to die. I would rather do so now on the battlefield than in some Moghul dungeon in a few days’ time.’

  ‘Seize that youth,’ ordered Bairam Khan.

  Immediately two tall bodyguards strode forward and, grabbing his arms, pulled him backwards from the body. With the attendant out of the way, Akbar could see the wounded man more clearly. The broken-off shaft of an arrow jutted from where his left eye had been, and blood was seeping down his face. His agony must have been extreme, but he looked almost relieved when Akbar asked, ‘Are you Hemu?’

  ‘Of course. Who else?’

  ‘What have you to say to your rightful emperor?’

  ‘That I have no rightful emperor and that I defy you, Moghul invader.’ Hemu aimed a gob of bloody spittle towards Akbar but it fell short.

  ‘Execute him at once, Majesty,’ said Bairam Khan.

  Akbar raised his sword but something made him hesitate to strike at the small, bleeding figure before him. ‘Wait a moment. My father Humayun always taught me that mercy often befitted a monarch better than harsh violence . . .’

  Hearing this, Hemu half-struggled to his feet and made towards Akbar, but two of Akbar’s guards seized him at once. With a strength that belied both his puny frame and his severe wound, Hemu bucked and strained and struggled so much that he broke free for an instant. Staggering towards Akbar, he shouted, ‘You blight and ravish our lands. You boast of your family’s descent from the tyrant Timur, yet you cannot even be sure who your own father was. I hear tell your father prostituted your mother to his generals to ensure their loyalty and that she – camel-faced whore that she is – enjoy—’

  Hemu got no further. With one slash of his sword, Akbar severed his head. Shaking with rage, his face spattered with Hemu’s hot blood, he could not speak for some moments, but then, wiping his face with a cloth and sheathing his sword, he turned to Bairam Khan, his voice once more composed. ‘You are right. We should not be merciful to the undeserving. Display this creature’s body around the camp. Send his head to Delhi and set it up to rot in one of the public squares as a lesson to all other potential rebels.’

  As Akbar was turning away with Bairam Khan to head back towards his own camp, Adham Khan approached. He had a bandage round the knuckles of his left hand, which had clearly suffered a cut, but seemed otherwise unscathed. Yet he too appeared less elated than Akbar thought might have been likely in this hour of victory. ‘You fought well, my milk-brother. I was watching some of your deeds.’

  ‘I hear you tasted blood too, killing the head of Hemu’s bodyguard. But I’ve sad news to report to you and Bairam Khan. Tardi Beg is dead.’

  ‘What? . . . How did he die?’

  ‘When you instructed me to gather some of his troops to feign flight back towards your position, I and my men fought our way towards his command post. As we reached it, we saw from a distance that all but a very few of his bodyguard were sprawled on the ground, dead or wounded. He himself was unhorsed and surrounded by a group of Hemu’s men whom he was trying valiantly to fight off. As we got nearer, hoping to save him, we heard one of his attackers calling on him to surrender. “No,” Tardi Beg shouted. “I am a man of honour, true to my emperor.” With that he rushed at his enemies a last time and I saw one spear him through the abdomen with a lance. As he lay impaled, twitching and clutching his guts, another of Hemu’s men pulled back his head and slit his throat like a slaughterer does to an animal.’

  ‘You died bravely, Tardi Beg, my brother, my tugan. May your soul rest tonight in Paradise,’ murmured Bairam Khan. ‘I am sorry I ever doubted you.’

  After a long pause, Akbar spoke to Bairam Khan. ‘In the case of Tardi Beg it was good not to execute or banish him, wasn’t it? I was wrong to contemplate mercy for Hemu, but it was correct to extend it to Tardi Beg to allow him to vindicate his honour in battle. My father was right, wasn’t he? Mercy has as much place in the armoury of a great ruler as severity.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty,’ said Bairam Khan, and Akbar saw that a tear was running down his commander-in-chief’s face.

  Chapter 3

  Manhood

  In the palace fortress of Lahore, Akbar looked down from the marble dais. He was sitting on the high-backed throne that at Bairam Khan’s suggestion he had ordered to be cast from melted-down gold coin from Hemu’s treasure chests. The throne had accompanied Akbar everywhere during his six-month-long imperial progress through Hindustan. The idea of showing himself to his people in the aftermath of his triumph had been his own, but Bairam Khan had helped him orchestrate an awesome display of Moghul power.

  The progress had delivered everything Akbar had hoped. How powerful, how proud, he had felt to ride at its head on his favourite black stallion with the gold-mounted saddle and bridle, wearing his father’s gleaming breastplate and Alamgir at his side. Next to him had been Bairam Khan and immediately behind them those commanders who had especially distinguished themselves in the battle against Hemu, including Adham Khan his milk-brother. After that – keeping in time with the martial cacophony of trumpets and kettledrums – had come the squadrons of horsemen, green pennants fluttering and steel-tipped lances erect, then the archers, musketmen and artillerymen, some mounted and some on foot. Behind had rumbled the wagonloads of booty seized from Hemu’s camp – sacks of coin, chests of jewels, bales of silks – protected by a special detachment of guards.

  A quarter of a mile further behind, so that the dust rising from the road should not dim the spectacle, had followed the swaying glittering trumpeting mass of Akbar’s war elephants in their steel-plate armour, some with blunted scimitars tied to their red-painted tusks. In battle those blades would be honed to a deadly sharpness, but these were merely for show. With the elephants captured from Hemu, Akbar now had over six hundred. Next trundled the gun carriages and the bullock wagons bearing Akbar’s bronze cannon, then the huge baggage train carrying all the paraphernalia – tents, cooking pots, food and fuel – for the imperial encampment.

  Often the crowds jostling for a sight of the Moghul procession as it passed had been so numerous that soldiers had had to hold them back with their spear shafts. Even in the remote countryside, people had come running from their fields to view the spectacle and make their obeisance. All the same, Akbar had been glad when it was finally over. It had been his particular wish that it should end here, in Lahore – the city which two years ago, on a balmy February day in 1555, his father Humayun had entered in triumph on his way to reconquer Hindustan. Akbar had been at his side and could recall everything, from the gleam of the gold thread and pearl-encrusted saddlecloth of the elephant on which they had been riding to the exultant expression on his father’s face as he had turned to smile at him.

  Out of respect for his father, he had ordered every detail replicated for his own entrance into Lahore, which he had made last night as the sky had crimsoned to the west. Now, gazing from his high throne on the rows of chieftains prostrated before him in the formal greeting of the korunush, Akbar felt a deep satisfaction. As news of the Moghul victory over Hemu had spread, they had not been able to declare their allegiance to him fast enough. Every day riders had arrived bearing unctuous messages and extravagant gifts – matched pairs of hunting dogs, doves with jewelled collars and feathers dyed in rainbow hues, jade-hilted daggers, muskets with ivory-inlaid stocks, solid gold emerald-studded incense burners and tortoiseshell boxes of fragrant frankincense – even a great ruby that its owner ingratiatingly explained had been a family heirloom for over five centuries.

  He had accepted these
treasures graciously but he was already shrewd enough to know that often the more lavish the present, the greater the treachery the giver had probably been contemplating. After consulting Bairam Khan, Akbar had decided to summon these supposedly loyal allies to await him at Lahore.

  ‘You may rise.’

  The sixty or so men, some sleek and plump in robes of silk and brocade in every colour from sapphire blue to saffron yellow, others – chieftains from the mountains – in coarse-woven tunics and trousers, got to their feet and waited, hands folded and heads bowed.

  ‘I thank you for answering my summons and for your oaths of loyalty. I recall the oaths made to my father when he too passed through Lahore not long ago. Indeed, I recognise many of you.’ Akbar allowed his gaze to roam slowly along the lines. Bairam Khan had briefed him well. He knew that among these chieftains were at least ten who had sworn allegiance to his father but on his death had immediately ceased sending the tribute they owed. Two had even made approaches to Hemu. They must be wondering how much Akbar knew. Did that pockmarked, pot-bellied chieftain from near Multan, who had just presented him with a fine chestnut stallion and was now regarding the carpet beneath his feet so studiously, suspect that in Akbar’s possession was proof of his treachery? Ahmed Khan’s men had intercepted one of his officers carrying a letter to Hemu.

  On the road to Lahore, Akbar had spent many hours debating with Bairam Khan and his counsellors how best to handle those whose loyalty had been found wanting. Some had argued that in the days of his grandfather Babur there would have been no mercy. The guilty would have been stretched on the stone of execution to be crushed by the foot of an elephant until their stomachs ruptured and their intestines spilled, or else flayed alive or torn apart by stallions. But yet again – just as with Tardi Beg – Akbar could not forget the words his father had been so fond of saying to him: ‘Any man can be vengeful. Only the truly great can be merciful.’

  Akbar had heard enough court gossip to know that some – perhaps even his mother Hamida – believed Humayun had sometimes carried magnanimity too far. Yet instinct told Akbar his father had often been right. The Moghuls would always be warriors who would not hesitate to spill blood when necessary. But if they were to succeed in Hindustan they must rule by respect as well as fear. Too much killing led to too many blood feuds. Bairam Khan, listening gravely to the arguments and, as was his habit, saying little at first, had eventually agreed with him but had added a warning. ‘Remember this. Know your enemies and listen to what our spies tell you. If, despite your attempts at reconciliation, they persist in their treachery then wipe them from the face of the earth.’

  Akbar brought his mind back to the present. None of those before him seemed anxious to catch his eye. It was time to frighten them a little and he had prepared his words with care. ‘I know why you are here. You perceive that the winds of war have blown in my favour. It was not luck that made this happen. My ancestor Timur conquered Hindustan and so gave the Moghuls an inalienable right to these lands. My grandfather Babur asserted that right, as did my father and as do I. Any man who challenges it will pay a heavy price, as Hemu discovered.’ Here Akbar paused and then, speaking in a firm, clear voice, he said, ‘Despite your fine words and gifts, I know that many of you have been traitors to me. Perhaps, even now, you are contemplating treachery. Look at me, all of you, so that I can see into your eyes.’

  Slowly, the assembled chiefs raised their heads. All looked anxious, even the ones who were probably innocent of any wrong-doing. Young as he was, Akbar had learned enough from his father’s struggles to know that most men craved power. Of those standing awkwardly before him, some visibly sweating, there could be few who had not at least thought of defecting from the Moghuls at some point during Hemu’s rebellion.

  ‘I have evidence that several among you have plotted against me. At a single word from me, my guards stand ready to mete out justice.’ He saw the chieftains’ eyes turn to the green-robed, black-turbaned men positioned on either side of the dais. ‘Since I rode into Lahore I have been asking myself what I should do . . .’ Akbar paused. The pockmarked man had started to shake. ‘But I am young. My reign is young. I do not want to spill more blood, and so I have decided to be merciful. I will forget past transgressions and look to you – as I do to all in my empire – to give me your undivided loyalty. Do this and you will find me generous. If you do not, nothing will save you.’

  As Akbar rose, the chieftains prostrated themselves once more, but not before he had seen the relief in many eyes. He felt pleased with himself. His voice had rung out clearly and he hadn’t stumbled over his words. And he had sensed his power. With a single gesture he could have had any of them killed instantly. He had known it and they had known it. It was exhilarating to realise that he could alter the course of men’s lives and it had made him wish to be generous. That was why on impulse – without having discussed it with his councillors or with Bairam Khan – he had decided to pardon the offenders. He had seen Bairam Khan start with surprise at his words and then frown. But Bairam Khan didn’t seem to understand how his confidence had been growing. He still treated him as a mere youth. Though Akbar trusted Bairam Khan above all others, an insidious thought had begun squirming in his brain – that perhaps his regent had become so enamoured of power he couldn’t bear to relinquish it . . .

  Akbar was still musing when later that night, returning to his apartments, he saw an old woman waiting outside with his qorchi. ‘Majesty, this woman has been appointed the khawajasara, keeper of the haram here in the palace, and she wishes to speak to you,’ said the squire.

  The old woman’s raisin eyes were still bright in her wrinkled face and there was a smile on her lips. ‘I served your father, Majesty, and I tended his concubines when he was a young prince,’ she began. Then she paused, and it seemed to Akbar that she was scrutinising him with some interest.

  ‘Have you something you wish to say to me?’ The night air seemed hot and heavy, and Akbar was tired. For a reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he felt uneasy under her penetrating gaze.

  ‘Majesty, you now have many women in the haram here, sent in recent weeks by chieftains and rulers wishing to win your favour. You have a physique that is the envy of many grown men and admired by every woman. I thought you might wish me to send one of the girls to you, or perhaps you would prefer to choose one for yourself?’

  Akbar stared at her, blushing and shifting from foot to foot. It was a standing joke of his milk-brother Adham Khan that although nearly fifteen Akbar hadn’t yet lost his virginity. Plenty of young women – even his mother’s attendants – had tried to catch his eye in recent months. Each time he had felt bashful. He wasn’t quite sure why. Was it because as emperor he didn’t wish to appear inexperienced or foolish in front of anyone, even a concubine? Yet time was moving on. He had fought his first battle as emperor and was becoming a man. It was time to enjoy a man’s pleasures and also to satisfy the curiosity that Adham Khan’s endless smutty jokes and boasts of his own sexual prowess had roused in him. The khawajasara’s eyes were still fixed on him and he sensed that she too knew he’d not yet been with a woman.

  ‘Let me choose for you, Majesty,’ she said.

  Akbar hesitated, but with pulses racing and a hardening in his groin, only for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said in what he hoped was a measured, experienced manner.

  ‘Will you come to the haram, Majesty?’

  Akbar thought about all the eyes and ears that would be watching and listening if he did. The haram here in the Lahore palace was where all the women of the imperial household were lodged, including his mother, his aunt and his milk-mother. At the thought of their amused speculations, however affectionate, he flushed again, ardour cooling. Then he made up his mind. Now was the time. ‘No. Send her here, to my apartments.’

  The old woman padded briskly away down the long corridor, torchlight from sconces on the walls lighting her way. Perhaps she had been a beauty once, maybe even one of his father’s concubines
. Akbar had often heard that before his marriage to Hamida, whom he had loved to the exclusion of all others, Humayun had been a great lover of women, with many concubines.

  Dismissing his attendants, he waited alone, pacing his apartments gripped by a mixture of excitement and apprehension. As the minutes passed his nervousness began to get the upper hand. He would send word to the haram that he had changed his mind, he decided. He was just moving towards the tall double doors of polished mulberry when they opened and his qorchi stepped inside. ‘Majesty, the girl is here. The keeper of the haram says she is a former concubine of the Raja of Talkh who prized her greatly and sent her hoping she would please you also. Her name is Mayala. Shall I send her in?’

  Akbar nodded. A moment later a tall, slim form wrapped in a hooded dark purple robe slipped in through the doors, which closed behind her. The hood was pulled low so her face was in shadow as she came towards him and knelt. Akbar hesitated, then took her hands and pulled her gently to her feet. She stood motionless before him but he could hear her soft, rapid breathing. As he pushed back her hood, long black hair gleaming like silk spilled out and he caught the scent of jasmine. She was still looking down but now he took her face in his hands and raised it.

  Eyes black as ebony gazed back at him and her full lips, reddened with the salve he had seen his mother apply, were smiling. After a few moments, as if she sensed his uncertainty, she gently guided his hands to the silver clasps of her robe between her breasts. As he released them, her robe fell to the floor and lay in a dark pool around her. Beneath she was naked except for a golden chain set with tiny rubies around her slender waist. Her hips were voluptuous, her breasts round and high, the nipples rimmed with henna.

  As Akbar stood motionless, lost for words, she stepped back. Running her hands through the magnificent veil of hair that fell almost to her buttocks, she revolved slowly before him. ‘I think you like me, Majesty,’ she whispered. Akbar nodded. She stepped towards him and he felt her begin slowly, teasingly, to loosen his own garments until he too was naked. After gazing at his taut and muscular body for a moment, she smiled. ‘Come, Majesty. Be my stallion.’ Placing her fingers on his arm she led him to the bed, and when he lay down beside her she took his hand and guided it between her thighs. ‘See, Majesty, the mandir mandal, the moist temple of love, which soon you will enter. This is what you must do . . .’