Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  Suddenly aware that Shaikh Ahmad had stopped ranting and that all were waiting for him to speak, Akbar raised a hand. ‘You are dismissed. I will think over what I have heard. Shaikh Mubarak – you will come to me tomorrow and we will speak further. But let this be understood. I am the emperor and, as such, God’s shadow upon the earth. I alone will decide how to conduct my life. I will not tolerate any interference and need no sanction from anyone for what I decide.’

  The members of the ulama backed away. Akbar sat for a while, caught up in his musings, but after several minutes Jauhar whispered to him, ‘Majesty, a stranger has arrived at court – by coincidence from the very country of which we have just been speaking, Persia. He begs an audience with you.’ Akbar was about to say that his patience was exhausted and he had no wish to see the man when Jauhar added, ‘He has an interesting story, Majesty, and he is no common traveller.’

  Akbar thought for a moment. He felt like going riding. A gallop across the desert would ease his frustration, but it was still too hot for that. ‘Very well, admit him.’

  Ten minutes later a tall, thin man was led on to one of the balconies. His dark purple robes hung from his emaciated body and his fingers were ringless.

  ‘You may approach. Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Ghiyas Beg. I am a Persian nobleman from Khurasan. My father was a courtier of the shah and my family are connected with the Persian royal family through marriage.’

  ‘What brings you to my court?’

  ‘A terrible blight fell upon my estates. The crops withered, my debts mounted and I and my family were reduced to poverty. I had heard of the many Persians who had come to Fatehpur Sikri and found great favour here. I therefore determined to bring my family into Hindustan and to offer you my services.’ Ghiyas Beg paused and for a moment rubbed his hand over eyes beneath which were shadows so dark the skin appeared bruised. His voice was deep and musical and he spoke court Persian with the grace of the courtier he claimed to be. Though clearly destitute, his bearing was that of a man more used to commanding than seeking favours. Akbar looked at him with growing interest.

  ‘Majesty, though I appear before you like a beggar, it was the perils of my journey that reduced me to this state. The only reason that I am not dressed in rags is that a Persian friend – one of the scholars in your library – gave me clean robes. Your inclination must be to order the poor creature that I have become from your sight, but I beg you first to hear my story.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I brought my wife – who was well advanced in pregnancy – and my young son Asaf Khan safely across the Helmand river out of Persia. It was then that our troubles began. The road to Hindustan lay through wild, lonely and mountainous country.’

  ‘I know. My father once hazarded his life by taking that path. How did you survive?’

  ‘To protect my family I joined a large caravan, but because of my wife’s fragile condition and the poor quality of the mules carrying us, we fell behind. One night towards dusk as we descended a narrow pass, bandits swept down the steep scree slopes and attacked us. They took everything we had except for the old mule on which my wife was riding, which they left us, as they said, “for charity’s sake”. We struggled on, desperate to catch up with the caravan, but darkness fell and we were forced to stop for the night in the lee of a hill which gave us some protection from the weather. It was late autumn and a chill, scouring wind was already blowing down from the mountains. That night – perhaps brought on by the shock of the attack – my wife gave birth to a daughter.’

  ‘So after all your sufferings, God was kind . . .’

  Ghiyas Beg’s bony face remained grave. ‘In our joy, we called her Mehrunissa, “Sun Among Women”, because the moment of her birth had brought light into the darkness of our lives. But our happiness was short-lived. Next morning, in the cold dawn light I was forced to confront our situation. We were starving, destitute and alone – we could not keep the child. I took Mehrunissa from the arms of my exhausted wife, who was barely conscious, and laid her in a crevice among the roots of a tall fir tree. I prayed she would die of exposure before jackals or some other wild creatures found her. I was even tempted – I confess it – to smother her myself, but that would have been too great a sin. I walked slowly away, my daughter’s thin wails echoing in my ears, indeed in my very soul.’

  Ghiyas Beg fell silent for a moment, as if reliving that most terrible of dilemmas. Akbar could picture the distraught father buffeted by freezing winds, seeing nothing but death and hopelessness ahead. Could he himself have abandoned one of his sons in such circumstances? As if the thought of his boys had somehow conjured one to appear, Akbar suddenly noticed Salim standing half concealed behind a sandstone pillar in the chamber below, listening intently.

  ‘Continue, Ghiyas Beg,’ he said.

  An unexpected smile softened the Persian’s face. ‘It is not for us mortals to know the ways of God, but for some reason he took pity on me. A Persian merchant to whom I had been talking – he was also from Khurasan – had noticed our absence when the caravan halted for the night. He knew my wife’s condition and guessed her time might have come. At first light, he and two of his servants came back to look for us. By a miracle he came across us as we were attempting to ford a stream.

  ‘When I told him about my daughter, he at once offered me one of his attendants’ horses. I galloped back – in truth we had not managed to get far – praying that Mehrunissa would still be alive. When I heard her cries above the wind I knew my plea had been answered. She was unharmed but very cold, her lips almost blue. I took the sheepskin saddlecloth of the horse and wrapped her in it. After a while, I saw the colour returning to her tiny face and from that moment hope was restored to me.

  ‘The merchant who had helped us remained our friend, indeed our benefactor, giving us food and allowing us to ride in one of his bullock carts until four days ago we saw your great city of Fatehpur Sikri rising up before us and our hearts filled with joy. But I have taken enough of your time, Majesty. If it pleases you to find some humble task about your court, you will find me a devoted and grateful servant.’

  Akbar scrutinised the tall, shabby figure before him. He didn’t doubt the Persian’s story of the hardships and dangers he had encountered. The man had looked truly harrowed as he had spoken of them. On the other hand, was this courtly, silver-tongued man all he claimed to be? Why had Ghiyas Beg set out with a young child and a pregnant wife on what he must have known would be a highly dangerous journey? The desire to escape poverty, the hopes of a new life that he had spoken of so eloquently might not be true. Maybe something else – corruption or rebellion – had forced him to flee . . .

  As if sensing his doubts, Ghiyas Beg seemed to sag a little. That tiny, despairing gesture decided Akbar. He would give the Persian the benefit of the doubt. After all, an emperor should be generous, and he had thought of somewhere he could send him – a place where, if he was as industrious as he claimed, he could be useful, and if he was dishonest or treacherous his crime would soon be discovered.

  ‘Ghiyas Beg, the story you have related with such candour has touched me. I believe you are a man of courage and honesty deserving of my favour. Jauhar . . .’ Akbar gestured to his elderly vizier. ‘A few days ago you told me that one of my assistant treasurers in Kabul had recently died, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty, of the spotted fever.’

  ‘Will you take the post, Ghiyas Beg? Prove your skill and industry and it may lead to more senior appointments.’

  Ghiyas Beg looked transfigured with relief. ‘I will serve you in Kabul to the utmost of my ability, Majesty.’

  ‘See that you do.’

  As the Persian was ushered out, Akbar motioned to Jauhar to come closer. ‘Write to my governor in Kabul about this appointment and tell him to keep an eye on Ghiyas Beg, just to be sure.’ Then he looked for his son, but was not surprised to find that Salim had slipped away. Ever since the day he had questioned him about th
e Jesuit visitors, he had noticed how his son was avoiding him. Whenever he made an effort to seek him out – going to watch him at his lessons or practising swordplay, archery or wrestling – instead of relishing the chance to show off his skills Salim seemed awkward and nervous. His obvious unease was making it increasingly difficult for Akbar to know what to do or say. Emperor himself from a young age, he had always taken the love and admiration of those around him for granted. How should he react to his son’s behaviour?

  He must learn patience. If he just waited, Salim would surely start coming to him of his own accord, whatever insidious things his mother might have told him, might tell him . . . Boys needed their fathers.

  ‘I am curious. What did this man Ghiyas Beg look like?’ asked Hamida.

  ‘He was tall and thin and the robe he was wearing was too small for him. His big, bony wrists were sticking out,’ Salim replied.

  ‘And he is a Persian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why has he come here?’

  ‘To seek my father’s help.’

  ‘What did he ask for?’

  ‘Employment in the service of the Moghuls.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what he said.’

  Hamida listened intently, and when Salim had finished was silent for a while. ‘Life is a strange thing,’ she said at last. ‘So much that happens to us appears random, yet – like your grandfather, my husband Humayun – I have often discerned patterns running through our existence as if at the hand of a divine weaver at the loom . . . You know that a seer’s blood runs in my veins. I thought that the power to see into the future had left me long ago, but while you were speaking I suddenly thought that one day this Ghiyas Beg might become important to our dynasty. There are strange parallels between his story and some of what previously befell our own family . . . You say that he has come from Persia with his fortunes in the dust after nearly abandoning his newborn child. As you know, a similar desperate plight once forced your grandfather and me to go to Persia to seek the shah’s help. We too were nearly destitute. But far worse than that, your father, then just a baby, had been stolen from us.

  ‘Picture the scene when we crossed into Persia . . . We had barely eaten for weeks and had no idea whether Shah Tahmasp would even let us remain in his kingdom. But when he learned of our arrival he sent ten thousand cavalrymen to escort us to his summer capital. Servants dressed in purple silk embroidered with gold walked ahead of us sprinkling the road with rosewater to keep the dust from rising. At night we slept in brocade tents on satin couches scented with ambergris, and attendants served us over five hundred different dishes as well as delicate sherbets chilled with ice brought down from the mountains and sweetmeats wrapped in gold and silver leaf. After every meal, we were presented with some fresh gift – singing birds with jewelled collars in cages of solid gold, an image of Timur in his summer palace in Samarkand painted on ivory that I still possess. But though we wanted the shah’s assistance, we refused to behave like suppliants. Your grandfather made him a great gift – greater than anything ever presented to him before. It was the Koh-i-Nur diamond, the “Mountain of Light”.’

  ‘Why did my grandfather give the diamond to the Shah?’

  Hamida smiled, a little sadly, or so it seemed to Salim. ‘You must understand how it was. Indeed, it’s a good lesson for you. Think how hard it was for him to throw himself on another ruler’s mercy. By offering the shah the Koh-i-Nur diamond he redressed the balance, showing himself the shah’s equal, even if in desperate straits, and thus retained his pride. What is a gem, however magnificent, compared with the honour of our dynasty?’ Hamida’s eyes were suddenly very bright.

  While she had been speaking, Gulbadan had entered. Though the lines running from the corners of her mouth to her jawline gave her a severe look, it vanished when she saw Salim, to be replaced by a warm smile.

  Salim smiled back. He liked to visit his grandmother and his great-aunt. With them he felt safe and secure. They didn’t criticise him, and he enjoyed their stories. When they spoke of how his grandfather had won back Hindustan, he could see the pennants fluttering from the steel-tipped lances of the Moghul horsemen as they galloped across the flat, dusty plains and the clouds of white smoke rising from the Moghul cannon. He could smell the acrid fumes and hear the crackle of musket fire and the deep, harsh trumpeting of war elephants.

  ‘Tell your great-aunt about the Persian who has arrived at court.’

  ‘Did your father agree to help this Ghiyas Beg?’ Gulbadan asked when Salim had finished.

  ‘Yes. He gave him a post in Kabul.’

  ‘Your father is a good judge of character,’ Gulbadan said, ‘but it wasn’t always so. As a young man he could be rash and too easily influenced by those around him. But he has learned to be more careful. Observe him, Salim. Ask him the reasons behind his decisions . . . try to learn from him.’

  That was easy for her to say, Salim thought. But what he said was, ‘I often go to the audience chamber and watch my father seated on his throne on top of the carved column. But it puzzles me how anyone dares to approach him. He looks so remote – almost godlike . . .’

  ‘It is a ruler’s duty to inspire confidence, to show that he is ready to listen,’ said Hamida. ‘People approach him because they trust him, as you should.’

  ‘Your grandmother is right,’ said Gulbadan. ‘A ruler must demonstrate to his people that he cares for them. That’s why every day at dawn your father steps out on to the jharoka balcony to show himself to his subjects. It is to prove to them not just that their emperor still lives but also that he is concerned for them, watching over them like a father . . .’

  He actually is my father, Salim thought, so why do I find it so hard to talk to him? Every time he was with Akbar it seemed to him that his father was examining and probing him, critically testing his merits and his knowledge.

  ‘Salim, what’s the matter? You look sad,’ said Hamida.

  ‘You tell me to talk to my father but it’s hard . . . I don’t know whether he’d welcome it. He always seems so immaculate, so perfect in dress and behaviour, and so busy, surrounded by his courtiers and his commanders. Sometimes he does come to watch me at my studies but when he asks me questions I feel confused . . . stupid . . . so worried that what I say won’t be good enough that I can’t answer at all. I know I disappoint him.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Hamida was smiling. ‘Don’t be so foolish. Remember your father is my son. He was not always this imposing presence. He was once a boy like you, grazing his knees and tearing his clothes in rough games and exercises with his companions and – if the truth be told – not half so good at his lessons or curious about the world around him as you are! And I know how proud he is of you. You should feel inferior to no one!’

  Salim smiled back but said nothing. How could they understand? How could anybody, when he didn’t understand his feelings himself?

  ‘I am pleased to see you, Salim. Come with me up to the roof. I was about to pray.’

  Salim followed his mother up the winding flight of sandstone stairs. The light from the clay oil lamp in Hirabai’s right hand was just enough for him to see where he was going, though once he turned a corner too sharply and tripped. Stepping out on to the flat roof of her palace he saw that his mother, long dark hair intertwined with white jasmine flowers, was already kneeling before a small shrine. It was a warm, windless evening and glancing up into the heavens Salim saw the pale sliver of the crescent moon.

  Hirabai was bending low in prayer. Although she sometimes spoke of her Hindu beliefs, they still seemed strange to him, raised a Muslim believing in one God and unused to idols and images. At last she was finished, and rising she turned to Salim. ‘Look at the moon. We Rajputs are its children by night and the offspring of the sun by day. The moon gives us our limitless endurance and the sun our indomitable courage.’ Hirabai’s dark eyes flickered as she looked at him. Salim could feel the intensity of her love for him and wished she would embrace him, but th
at was not her way and her arms remained by her sides.

  ‘Mother, you always talk about the Rajputs, but I’m a Moghul too, aren’t I?’ Salim had come to his mother hoping that perhaps she might help him understand the confusions and uncertainties that seemed to be crowding in around him. And he had come alone, slipping away from the attendants who, he suspected, were under orders to report what they saw and heard to Akbar.

  ‘To my great sorrow you have been brought up as a Moghul prince. Your tutors have stuffed your ears with tales of the valour of your great-grandfather Babur and of your grandfather Humayun – how they crossed the Indus river and conquered an empire.’

  ‘But my father is the Moghul Emperor of Hindustan. Surely I need to know the history of his people?’

  ‘Of course. But you also need to be told the truth. Your tutors praise the bravery and daring of the Moghul clans but never say that they stole from the Rajputs what was rightfully theirs.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have been brought up by your father to believe this land is yours – but he is deceiving you just as through blind pride and arrogance he deceives himself. The truth is that Moghuls are no more than cattle thieves who sneak among the herds at night to steal the property of others. They took advantage of a moment of weakness in Hindustan to invade. They claimed that Timur’s conquest of Hindustan gave them the right to rule, but who was he but another uncouth barbarian raider from the north?

  ‘It is my people, the Rajputs – your people too, Salim – who are the true, indeed the sacred rulers of Hindustan. Just before Babur and his hordes poured down into our land from their mountainous wildernesses, the Rajput kings under Rana Sanga of Chittorgarh were forming an alliance to depose the weak, luxury-loving Lodi rulers and take Hindustan back for our people. Perhaps we had angered the gods and the Moghul invaders were our punishment, but we have paid in blood for any offence we gave.