Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  Salim had seldom seen his father so openly angry. Without waiting for attendants to help him he was already pulling off his silk tunic ready to change into riding clothes.

  ‘Come with me, Salim. It will be a valuable lesson. I allow my Hindu subjects complete freedom of worship except in this one thing. You know what sati is, of course, don’t you? They call these women “flaming torches of love and fellowship” but they are just victims, often coerced to die with their husbands by relatives out of some distorted perception of family honour.’ Akbar’s eyes were stern. ‘I thank God that our people have never practised such a thing. For the Moghuls, death on the battlefield is the most honourable thing for a man. Which of us would not, in his heart, choose to die in battle, rather than ingloriously in our beds? But which of us would find similar honour in the idea of our women committing suicide because we were no more? Don’t you agree, Salim?’ Akbar’s attendants were now dressing him in a tunic and pantaloons and fastening a green brocade sash round his still muscular waist.

  Salim nodded. What he didn’t tell his father was how tales of sati victims both repelled and fascinated him. Death came so randomly – a friend of his own age had recently caught the spotted fever and died within two days. Mortality was hard to comprehend, especially when you were young. Perhaps that was why it held such a morbid allure. Despite himself, he always listened with half-guilty curiosity to descriptions of the women’s screams rising above the crackling of the blazing pyre and even of victims trying frantically to escape, hair and clothes already alight, only to be thrown back by their husbands’ relatives.

  ‘Quickly, Salim. The sooner we get there the better chance we have of halting this crime.’

  Galloping by his father’s side out of Fatehpur Sikri, bodyguards in their green tunics behind them and four heralds with silver trumpets riding ahead to clear the way, Salim felt proud that his father had chosen him to accompany him, as well as a visceral thrill at the adventure ahead.

  It was a hot afternoon in late March and puffs of pale dust rose from the hard-baked ground beneath the horses’ hooves. Squinting up into the clear, deep blue sky, Salim saw the sun was still high. If the funeral was to take place at sunset they had time, though Akbar showed no sign of slackening the pace. His chestnut stallion beneath its gold-embroidered saddle cloth was foamy with sweat and Salim saw that the coat of his own bay mare was mottled with it. Perhaps this was a little how it felt to ride into battle – something he had never done but longed for.

  They were climbing now as they followed a track over land parched a deep gold. Ahead it narrowed, winding up to the top of a steep, flat-topped hill on which Salim glimpsed a collection of simple dwellings. Beyond, a column of brown smoke was rising almost vertically into the air.

  He heard Akbar shout, ‘They’ve been warned of our coming and have fired the pyre. They’ll pay for this.’ Glancing at him, Salim saw his father’s strong-jawed face tauten with rage and frustration. As they urged their blowing horses towards the top of the hill, Akbar shouted to his men, ‘Quickly. No time to lose!’

  Reaching the summit, Salim saw that they were on a plateau. To the left was a cluster of mud-brick huts around a well and on the right a larger house, also single-storeyed but enclosed by a low wall – probably the headman’s dwelling. No one was there except for two young children fast asleep on a string charpoy beneath a neem tree and near them a puppy which regarded the new arrivals without interest through half-closed eyes. But ahead, three or four hundred yards away, Salim made out through a tangle of spiny bushes a crowd of people in dun-coloured clothes. Beyond them rose the plume of smoke, now thicker and darker, and orange flames flickered.

  ‘Come on!’ Akbar shouted, kicking his stallion hard. In a matter of moments they burst through the bushes into a clearing where a tall stack of brushwood was already well alight around the edges. On top of the pyre and not itself yet burning was a body wrapped in white muslin. Two men were leaning forward with a jar of what looked like oil or ghee which they were throwing over the corpse, the viscous yellow liquid arcing through the air and hissing as drops fell into the flames. At that moment the corpse’s clothes caught light and Salim caught the sweet stench of flesh starting to burn. Galloping to within ten feet of the pyre, Akbar wheeled his horse to a standstill. The crowd had been so intent on what was happening that they were slow to react.

  ‘Surround the pyre,’ Akbar shouted to his guards. Riding right up to the crowd, he demanded, ‘Who is your leader?’ He spoke in Hindi, the local language, in which he was as fluent as he was in Persian, the language of the court.

  ‘I am,’ replied one of the men who had been pouring the oil. ‘We are cremating the body of my father, who was headman of this village. I am his eldest son, Sanjeev.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘No, Excellency.’ Sanjeev shook his head. Salim saw him slowly taking in the rich trappings of Akbar’s horse, the gems flashing on his fingers and round his neck, the well-armed guards in their green tunics. Puzzlement then alarm spread over his face, which was badly disfigured by smallpox scars.

  ‘I am your emperor. I was told a widow-burning is to take place here. Is that true?’

  Sanjeev once more shook his head, but Salim saw his eyes flick across to a thatched windowless shack. Akbar saw it too and at once gestured to one of his guards to check inside. Moments later the man reappeared carrying a young woman in a white sari. Her body was limp, and as the guard came nearer Salim saw that her eyes were open but unfocused.

  ‘Lay her on the ground and one of you villagers fetch water,’ Akbar commanded. A boy ran up with a small clay cup. Akbar dismounted, took it, and kneeling by the woman’s side held it to her lips. The first drops ran down her chin but then she stirred and opening her mouth began to swallow. Coming closer, Salim saw the huge dark circles of her dilated pupils.

  ‘Who is this woman? Speak or I swear I will strike off your head here and now,’ Akbar said.

  Sanjeev twisted his hands. ‘This is my father’s widow Shakuntala – he married her a year after the death of my own mother and just three months before he fell ill.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fifteen, Majesty.’

  ‘You’ve drugged her, haven’t you?’

  ‘I gave her opium pellets to swallow. You don’t understand, Majesty. You are not a Hindu. It is a matter of family honour for a widow to follow her husband into the all-consuming heat of the flames . . . I drugged her to ease the pain.’

  ‘You drugged her so she wouldn’t resist when you put her on to the funeral pyre.’

  The young woman had sat up and was looking around, confused. Behind her the flames of the pyre were now leaping higher, crackling and shooting showers of sparks into the air. The smell of burning human flesh, mingling with the aroma of the scented oils and butter with which the brushwood had been drenched, was growing ever more pungent. Suddenly aware of where she was and what was happening, Shakuntala got shakily to her feet and turned towards the pyre. At its heart the body of her dead husband was now burning like a torch. As she watched, the corpse’s head burst open with a crack, followed by a frying sound as the brains were immediately incinerated.

  Sanjeev glared at her, for the moment oblivious of Akbar and his entourage or of the villagers silently watching. ‘It is your duty to perish in the flames consuming your husband’s body. My mother would have done so had she outlived him and she would have been proud of it. You are bringing shame on my family’s good name.’

  ‘No. You are the one committing a shameful act. I have forbidden sati throughout my empire. Whether the widow is willing or unwilling, I will not tolerate such barbarous practices.’ Akbar turned to the woman. ‘You cannot stay here. You would not be safe. I am Akbar, your emperor. I offer you the chance to return with me and my men to my court where employment will be found for you as an attendant in the haram. Do you accept?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty,’ the woman replied. Until that moment she hadn’t re
alised who Akbar was and Salim noticed she was scarcely able to look his father in the eye.

  ‘As for you,’ Akbar addressed the still defiant-looking Sanjeev, ‘if you thought your religion required it, would you be willing to submit to the agony of being burned alive? I wonder. Guards, take hold of him and bring him over to the pyre.’

  Sanjeev’s pockmarked face was suddenly waxy with sweat and he started to breathe heavily. ‘Majesty, please . . .’ he begged as two soldiers grabbed him beneath the armpits and dragged him towards the fire. He was punily built and the guards could toss him into the flames as easily as a bale of straw, Salim thought.

  Akbar strode across to the man. ‘Hold him by the shoulders,’ he ordered. ‘Let us see how well he can bear the pain he was so ready to inflict on others.’

  Then, gripping the man’s right arm just above the elbow, Akbar thrust his hand into the flames. Sanjeev’s screams split the air and he fought to break free but Akbar steeled himself to hold his hand in the brightly burning fire for a little longer. Sanjeev’s crescendoing cries were now more animal than human. Even the young woman was no longer able to watch.

  Suddenly Sanjeev passed out and apart from the crackling flames there was silence. Supporting the limp body, Akbar pulled the man’s badly burned hand from the pyre and held it up for a few moments so all could see before letting him fall to the ground. Then he turned to address the villagers, who in the shock of what they had just witnessed had drawn even closer together like a knot of sheep that suspects the wolf is close.

  ‘You have just witnessed my justice. I expect my laws to be obeyed and transgressors always to be severely punished. You are all as guilty as this man here.’ He pointed to Sanjeev, who was now beginning to come round and moaning in anguish. ‘You knew what was intended and did nothing to stop it. I will not make you feel the fire as he did, but I will give you ten minutes to remove your livestock and possessions. Then my men will turn your village into a pyre. Over the next weeks as you labour to rebuild your houses you will have time to contemplate the consequences of defying your emperor.’

  Within minutes the settlement was ablaze. Shakuntala was mounted behind one of the guards, a scarf thrown over her head to preserve her modesty, as they rode back down the hill. Salim noticed that she did not once look back at the place which had been her home. Glancing at his father, he realised he had never felt so proud of him or so glad to be his son and a Moghul.

  ‘He was magnificent. I had never seen him dispense justice with such power and authority. It was different from watching him at court where everything is so stiff and formal and seems to take for ever.’ Ever since his father’s rescue of the young Hindu widow, Salim had felt buoyed by memories of it, especially of how his father had known instinctively what to say and do. That was real power.

  ‘He was interfering with the ancient ways of our land,’ Hirabai said coldly.

  ‘But he upholds the rights of Hindus. Only a few days ago I overheard some members of the ulama criticising his tolerance. One mullah said he had heard that the emperor was going to pray at the Hindus’ sacred place at Allahabad where the Jumna and the Ganges meet. Another was complaining that the emperor seemed prepared to venerate anything – fire, water, stones and trees . . . even the sacred cows he allows to wander freely through his towns and villages, even their very dung . . .’

  ‘Your father only upholds what he approves of. He has no right to intervene in sati. It does not concern him.’

  ‘But it does. He has forbidden it. Those villagers were defying him.’

  ‘They were obeying a higher authority – their religion. That was not disobedience but duty.’ Hirabai’s words reminded Salim of what Sanjeev had said in justification of his actions, and of what the Jesuits sometimes said in justification of acts by their church that also seemed barbarous. He said nothing as Hirabai continued, ‘My people – your people – the Rajputs have practised sati almost since time began. Many times when I was a girl I witnessed Rajput noblewomen give away their jewels and other worldly possessions and join their husbands joyfully on the funeral pyres, cradling their dead husbands’ heads in their laps as the flames leapt around them, all the while smiling and uttering not a cry.’

  ‘But it was wrong . . . why should they give up their lives before their time? What good did it do?’

  ‘It proved their love, courage and devotion and brought honour to their families. As I have told you before, we Rajputs are the children of the sun and of fire. We perhaps more than any other Hindus believe in the power of the flame to cleanse and ennoble us. Many, many times in our history – the last was at the end of your father’s siege of Chittorgarh – when it seemed that our menfolk faced certain death on the battlefield, Rajput women dressed in their finest clothes and jewels as if it was their wedding day. Then, faces transfigured by the glory that awaited them, they followed their queen in a stately procession to where a great fire had been lit. One by one, they committed the sacred rite of jauhar, leaping joyfully into flames which reduced their bodies to ashes and set their spirits free to rise again like phoenixes.’

  Of course, no one would ever expect her to burn on Akbar’s pyre since Muslims did not cremate their dead, Salim thought, though looking at the almost fanatical pride on her face he knew that had his mother been married to a Rajput she would have followed him gladly into the flames. But all Salim could think of was Shakuntala’s terrified young face. Barely two years older than he, she had chosen life not death and every instinct told him she had been right. His mother’s veneration of suicide seemed chilling, and proud though he was of his Rajput ancestry this was something he couldn’t share. Many times when trying to judge between his father and his mother he’d been left confused and uncertain, but not this time.

  Chapter 18

  Warrior Prince

  ‘I have decided that I will move the capital of the empire from this city of Fatehpur Sikri to Lahore. Preparations will begin immediately. I and the court will begin our journey to Lahore in two months’ time. The council is dismissed.’

  Standing at the back of the chamber, Salim felt his heart beat faster as he watched his father sweep past him and disappear through the curtained doorway into the sunlit courtyard followed by his tall green-turbaned bodyguards. By the startled look on their faces and the excited hubbub of voices, the members of his father’s council were as surprised and shocked as he was by Akbar’s pronouncement, which had been made at the end of a routine not to say tedious council session about the level of market taxes. Only Abul Fazl seemed unperturbed as he completed his notes of the meeting, the slight smile on his smooth fleshy face suggesting – probably intentionally – to any onlookers that Akbar had long since taken him into his confidence. Why did he so often feel like punching Abul Fazl to wipe away that supercilious smile? Salim wondered. Perhaps because he wished his father would share more of his thoughts with him. In particular, this decision to move from Fatehpur Sikri both intrigued him and worried him. His father rarely acted on impulse. He had probably calculated that to announce his decision when and how he had would indicate that his mind was made up and he would brook no debate or questioning of the move.

  Therefore, the relocation must be important to his father’s plans. But why? As his father’s eldest son, surely he should know him well enough to understand his motives. What’s more, what would it mean for him? Did Akbar intend the whole court to move? Or would he leave some part of it behind in these beautiful new buildings? Would he himself accompany his father? And what about his mother Hirabai? Might she be left behind in her private sandstone palace in Fatehpur Sikri? That seemed only too likely. He still enjoyed his visits to his mother, however infrequent they had become and however often she inveighed against his father. His concern grew as he realised he might be separated from one or other of his parents. He must know what was in his father’s mind. Hadn’t he a right to ask?

  Without pausing for reflection which might dampen his resolution, Salim pushed his way th
rough the assembled courtiers lingering around the doorway of the room to debate the move to Lahore. As soon as he was out in the courtyard, he ran past the fountains bubbling and glinting in the noonday sun to his father’s private quarters. Once through the carved wooden doors that the guards opened immediately to him, Salim saw his father unbuckling his ceremonial sword. Suddenly he felt his confidence dip and hesitated, uncertain what to say or indeed whether to leave as quickly as he had come. However, his father had seen him enter and asked, ‘Salim, what do you want?’

  ‘To know why we are leaving Fatehpur Sikri,’ Salim blurted out.

  ‘It is a good question and a fair one too. If you sit on that stool over there and wait a moment while I change my clothes I will give you the answer you deserve.’

  Salim sat on the low gilded stool, nervously twisting a gold ring given to him by his mother which he habitually wore on the index finger of his right hand. His father completed his change and washed his hands and face in a gold bowl of rosewater held out by one of his young attendants before dismissing them with a wave of his hand and sitting down on another stool near his son.

  ‘Why do you think I decided to move the court to Lahore, Salim?’

  For a moment Salim was lost for words as if overcome by his temerity in questioning his father about a major decision. Then he stammered, ‘I don’t know . . . I was so surprised that you wished to leave a city that you yourself had built only recently at such cost to honour the great seer Shaikh Salim Chishti as well as to celebrate the birth of my brothers and myself and your great victories in Gujarat and Bengal . . . I could not think why. That is why I came to you . . . to find out . . . I heard one of the courtiers say something about the water supply . . .’

  ‘It’s not the water. That problem can be solved. And put out of your mind any thought of the cost of this city. Our empire is now so rich that money spent in the past should not and does not play any part in decisions about the future. I intend the consequences of my move to be greater power, greater wealth for the empire – enough to build ten, even a hundred Fatehpur Sikris.’