Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Surely when their spell in confinement ends in a few days, they’ll have sobered up, won’t they, Suleiman Beg?’

  ‘I doubt it. I’ve heard that some of their companions have managed to smuggle liquor in to them. Rumour has it Murad’s fat steward wound some cow’s intestines filled with spirits around him beneath his voluminous garments to do it, and that Daniyal bribed one of the guards to bring him the stuff in the blocked-off barrel of his musket.’

  ‘The latter can’t be true. My father would have a guard executed under the elephant’s foot for such blatant disobedience.’

  ‘It’s surprising what risks men will take for money, but perhaps it’s only a story. All I can say is that everyone is gossiping about it.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right and they’ve not real rivals as my father’s heir, but that does not mean I have any prospect of achieving the power that is my due at this stage in my life. There is much that I could achieve for our dynasty if only my father would give me a chance.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, ridding him of some of his fawning and corrupt advisers – Abul Fazl for a start.’

  ‘But you know your father wouldn’t countenance their dismissal. At the very least, you would have had to prove yourself as a good governor somewhere before criticising his own advisers and administration.’

  ‘How can I do that when my father will give me no position of trust?’ Salim thudded his dagger into the divan once more, eyes blazing. ‘Sometimes I think I have no alternative but to take over the government of a province without my father’s permission to demonstrate my worth!’

  ‘But that would be rebellion.’

  ‘Call it what you will – I might say I was using my initiative.’

  ‘You are serious, aren’t you?’ said Suleiman Beg quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Salim, looking directly at his friend. ‘It’s something I’ve been thinking about for months in the dark hours of the night as I’ve fought to curb my own craving for drink. Don’t look so shocked – I have many friends among the young middle-ranking commanders in our armies in the east. They too resent the dead hands of their older superiors on their shoulders – they too want power and responsibility.’

  ‘It’s true. I have heard such mutterings of discontent,’ said Suleiman Beg. ‘There would also be the inducements of promotion and reward . . .’

  ‘I see that you are beginning to believe that it might be possible. Would you be prepared to join me?’

  ‘You should know I would. We have shared so much. I owe my loyalty to you before any other.’ Then after some moments’ reflection, now looking as serious and intent as Salim, Suleiman Beg added, ‘What’s more you might well succeed in winning your father’s attention and respect. If you act, what will your first steps be?’

  ‘To sound out some of those young officers in the eastern army. I cannot travel there without my father’s sanction, but you could . . .’

  ‘I will go – I still have some relations in the administration in Bengal and no one will suspect if I visit them.’

  ‘Thank you for your trust and loyalty.’ Much to his surprise, as he spoke Salim heard a new-found authority in his tone – not unlike his father’s. Now he had determined on action, at least the uncertainty of waiting would be ended. Whatever the outcome he would never need to reproach himself with a lack of the courage to act.

  As Salim looked out three months later from beneath the awning of his large tent at the centre of his camp, the sun was setting over the Chambal river. Flocks of waterfowl – dark silhouettes against the pale orange sunset – were swooping down to roost among the reeds and rushes fringing the riverbank. Under the pretext of an extended tiger hunting expedition he had left his father’s court six weeks previously. For the last few days he had been anxiously scanning the landscape for approaching groups of horsemen, hoping for the return of Suleiman Beg from his clandestine mission to the east but a part of him fearing that any riders who appeared might be Abul Fazl’s men coming to arrest him having discovered his plotting.

  Just after noon that day, a group of horsemen had appeared. As they drew closer, emerging from the shimmering heat haze, he had seen there were too few to be an arresting party. To Salim’s great relief, it had been Suleiman Beg. However, he had been so exhausted by long days in the saddle that after reassuring Salim in the broadest terms of his mission’s success he had requested permission to sleep. The two had agreed to discuss the results in more detail as they ate together that night. Behind him in the tent Salim could hear his attendants beginning to make preparations for the meal.

  Shading his eyes against the setting sun, he saw Suleiman Beg making his way towards him and stepped forward to greet him. The two men embraced and then, arms round each other’s shoulders, ducked beneath the tent’s fringed green awning and entered.

  Here, a low table surrounded by silk-covered bolsters and cushions was spread with an array of foods – chicken and lamb cooked in the tandoor, stew made in the Kashmiri way with dried fruits, mild spices and yoghourt stirred into the sauce, hotter vegetable dishes made according to Gujarati recipes and fish from the Chambal. As they began to eat, dipping into the stews with pieces of nan bread, Salim dismissed the servants and spoke.

  ‘Tell me about your discussions. How many officers can we count on in the eastern provinces?’

  ‘Perhaps two hundred. Each new recruit suggested others who might be sympathetic to our cause. They are mostly as we expected – young men like ourselves, eager for responsibility as well as for the rewards I promised them on your behalf. But there are also some older ones disappointed by their lack of advancement or critical of the tolerance your father shows towards former enemies and those of other religions.’

  ‘How many men do they command in total?’

  ‘Around thirty thousand.’

  ‘That should be enough to demonstrate to my father that I must be taken seriously and given more power.’

  ‘Many were convinced to join us because this is your motivation, not full-scale rebellion and the usurpation of your father’s throne. It reassured them that at some stage you would negotiate.’

  ‘Then they must continue to believe so.’

  ‘What do you mean? That is your intention, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I suppose it is. Although sometimes I indulge myself by thinking that if all went very well I might force my father’s abdication now rather than wait for his death.’

  ‘Guard against such thoughts. Your father’s forces are powerful. We will have enough men to show your mettle and your worthiness for a greater role in government affairs, but never enough to succeed in a full revolt. If you tried to do so, some of our existing supporters would fall away.’

  ‘My father is loved by the people, I know. It sometimes seems to me that he understands them better and cares more about their happiness than he does for many of those closer to him. I will doubtless negotiate. I was only suggesting we should not rule anything out while we see how the situation develops.’

  ‘When should we take the next step? We shouldn’t wait long. Abul Fazl’s spies are everywhere. He has subtle ways of coaxing secrets from men and changing their loyalties.’

  ‘Allow me to worry about Abul Fazl. He is only human, after all. But we won’t delay. I’ve already sent messages to people I know to be loyal to me in Agra and Lahore to join me here within a month. When you’re rested and we’ve discussed our plans in more detail you should return east and collect our forces there. Once I have assembled my own men, I’ll ride with them to meet you at Allahabad. Its position at the junction of the Jumna and the Ganges will mean my father will be unable to ignore us if we make that our base.’

  Salim held up his hand to halt his column. The messenger he had sent to Nasser Hamid, commander of the garrison of Allahabad, now only four miles away, its domes and towers clearly visible, was galloping back towards them. As the young man reined in there was a broad smile on his face. ‘Highness, Nass
er Hamid has thrown open the town to you. He bids you welcome.’

  Salim’s shoulders dropped and he began to relax for the first time in weeks. Nasser Hamid was a friend from his youth and in secret correspondence had promised to yield Allahabad to Salim. Nevertheless, as he had ridden towards the city that morning, Salim had felt apprehensive. Everything seemed to be going almost too well. Since parting from Suleiman Beg he had succeeded in winning young officers from both Lahore and Agra to his cause. Just seven weeks ago, scarcely pausing in a conversation with Abul Fazl, Akbar had nodded his assent to his eldest son’s request to leave the court and Lahore on another hunting expedition. The next day Salim had ridden out with a band of his followers on his mission to demand his father’s attention and to prove his worth, as he put it to himself, although he knew others would simply call it rebellion.

  As he rode he wondered whether and in what circumstances he would see Akbar again. Of more concern than the impact of his action on his father had been the fact that he could bring neither his wives nor his children with him. He felt far from close enough to any of his wives to take them into his confidence – besides, the haram was notorious for its loose talk. His young sons spent so much of their time with their grandfather that their departure with him would be too unusual to pass without notice. Perhaps his greatest sorrow, though, was that he had been unable to say anything to his grandmother who had worked so hard for his recall from Kabul. He knew how much it would hurt her that he was challenging his father and in such a way. She loved them both and would fear for them both, dreading their confrontation turning into all-out war. At present, however, there was no sign of that. His scouts had reported no traces of pursuit, and when a division of his father’s horsemen on a routine patrol had approached, both their commander and Salim had sheered away, making sure they gave each other a wide berth. As he had ridden day after day with his growing army, Salim had begun to enjoy command and the freedom he felt from interference by his father or anyone else. He knew this would not last for ever and he would need all his abilities to secure the best outcome for himself and also, he reminded himself, for the dynasty.

  Suleiman Beg had sent messengers that he and the contingent from Bengal would reach Allahabad in a fortnight. He would be glad to see his milk-brother, not just for the strong body of men he was bringing but also for his friendship, his calm, considered advice and his absolute loyalty. But for the moment he must ensure he made a good entrance into Allahabad to impress its citizens and to reinforce the confidence of his own men.

  ‘Unfurl our banners,’ he commanded, sitting straighter in the saddle. ‘Order the mounted trumpeters to the front together with the elephants carrying the kettledrums and their drummers. Have our men close ranks, then sound the trumpets, beat the drums, and let us advance into Allahabad.’

  ‘Highness, an envoy has arrived from Bir Singh, the Bundela Raja of Orchha,’ announced an attendant as, three months later, Salim and Suleiman Beg were standing on the tall crenellated walls of the fort at Allahabad watching Salim’s cavalry drilling on the parade ground below. Nearby on the banks of the Jumna were the long, straight lines of tents which housed the fifty thousand men who by now had gathered to his banner, more than half as many again as he had originally anticipated.

  ‘I will see him at once. Bring him to me here on the walls.’

  Five minutes later a tall, thin man with large gold hoops in both ears climbed the stone staircase up to the battlements. His clothes were travel-stained, and in one hand he was carrying a jute sack around which several black flies were buzzing. When he was within a dozen feet of Salim the man placed the sack on the floor and prostrated himself.

  ‘What news has the raja for me?’

  Quickly regaining his feet, the envoy grinned, exposing uneven white teeth beneath his bushy dark moustache. ‘News that will gladden your heart, Highness.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Bir Singh has fulfilled your wishes.’ While he spoke, the man lifted the sack once more and unpicked the series of tight knots in the cord holding it together. As he opened its folds, a sweet, sickly smell filled the still air. Then he reached inside and pulled out by the hair a decaying human head. Despite the bloated putrescent flesh, the purple splitting lips and the dry clotted blood, Salim immediately recognised the fleshy cheeks and long nose of Abul Fazl. A pale and shocked Suleiman Beg was gazing at the head, clutching his stomach as if about to vomit.

  But a composed and unsurprised Salim simply said, ‘The raja has done well to follow my orders. Both he and you shall have your promised rewards doubled.’ Then he turned towards Suleiman Beg. ‘I did not tell you in advance of my plans, Suleiman Beg, for your own protection so you would not be implicated if I was betrayed. Abul Fazl’s death was necessary. He was my enemy.’ He turned back to the envoy. ‘Tell me how Abul Fazl perished.’

  ‘When you alerted the raja that you expected Abul Fazl to travel through his territory while returning north to Agra from an inspection of the imperial armies fighting on the borders of the Deccan, he had the only two roads that he could use to traverse our mountainous lands carefully watched. About a month ago, he heard that Abul Fazl was approaching the westernmost one with an escort of about fifty men. Our forces – I was among them – ambushed his party as he ascended a steep and narrow pass late one afternoon. Our musketeers, hidden among boulders above the road, shot down many of Abul Fazl’s bodyguards before they could even draw their weapons. However, Abul Fazl and about a dozen of his men succeeded in dismounting unhurt and took refuge in some rocks and bushes close to the road. From that cover they kept up accurate fire on any of our soldiers who approached, wounding several. Among them was one of my own brothers, who was hit in the mouth by a bullet which carried away most of his teeth and part of his jawbone. He still lives, unable to speak or to eat properly, but for his sake I pray that his death is not much longer delayed.’

  After pausing, sad-eyed for a moment, the envoy continued, ‘When the raja saw that Abul Fazl was completely surrounded, he sent a messenger under a flag of truce with a promise that if Abul Fazl surrendered he would spare his few surviving men. A few minutes later, Abul Fazl emerged from the scrub and throwing down his sword calmly approached the raja. His face was expressionless as he spoke. “I will not run from an unwashed, flea-ridden hill chieftain such as you. Do with me what you will but remember whom I serve.”

  ‘Enraged by his contemptuous words, the raja ran forward, drawing his serrated dagger from the scabbard at his side as he did so. He seized Abul Fazl, who did not resist, by the throat and sawed through his fat neck with his dagger. I have seen many men killed but I have never seen so much blood flow from a man as came from Abul Fazl. Then the raja had all of Abul Fazl’s bodyguard who were still alive killed, whether wounded or not, and ordered all the bodies to be buried deep enough to be unreachable by the digging of even the most persistent of wild dogs.’

  ‘Why didn’t he keep his promise to spare the bodyguards?’ asked Suleiman Beg.

  ‘He could not afford to do so for fear they took word of his deed to the emperor. He knew that Akbar’s love for Abul Fazl would mean that his vengeance on his killer, if known, would be harsh.’

  ‘It was necessary, Suleiman Beg,’ said Salim. ‘To achieve great ends we must sometimes use harsh means – may the souls of the brave bodyguards rest in Paradise. Their only sin was to serve an evil man. Abul Fazl was constantly poisoning my father’s mind against me, whispering to him of my drunkenness and my ambition, advising him to appoint his own creatures – not me or my friends – to positions of trust. Even my grandmother told me to beware of him – that he was no friend of mine. I hated him. His sneering complacent smile’ – Salim’s voice was rising – ‘his scarcely concealed contempt . . . there were so many times I wanted to push back down his throat the patronising, hypocritical words he spoke to me before my father.’

  Rage at the recollection of Abul Fazl’s behaviour coursed through Salim. Suddenly he grabb
ed the head and in one movement kicked it over the battlements. A piece of decaying flesh flew from it as his foot struck it and the head landed with a dull thud in the rubbish-filled dry moat below. ‘Good riddance to a bad man! Let the dogs gnaw out that lying flattering tongue of his and the crows peck at those fawning inquisitive eyes.’

  That evening Salim and Suleiman Beg were relaxing in Salim’s private apartments in the fort. Although his abstinence from opium was now complete Salim had taken to drinking wine once more. It tasted good and he had convinced himself that he was now strong enough to be its master rather than it being his. Just after an attendant had departed after bringing them another bottle, Suleiman Beg asked, ‘Don’t you fear your father’s retribution for Abul Fazl’s death? Why did you provoke him so, knowing as you must that he could crush our forces if he wished to?’

  ‘I realise his armies are strong and loyal but he has not moved against us in the months we have been here. He has preferred to ignore my rebellion beyond issuing proclamations dismissing me as a foolish ungrateful child and threatening confiscation of the property of any who join me. Instead, he has concentrated his main armies in the Deccan to quell the rebellions on the borders of the empire. I don’t expect him to change his mind and attack us now.’

  ‘Why? Abul Fazl was his friend as well as his counsellor.’

  ‘And I am his son. He knows he must think about the future of our dynasty. When Murad died – almost a year ago now – and with his grandsons still too young, he must have recognised that if it was to survive he has only drunken Daniyal or myself to choose from for his heir. He may have his doubts about me, but he must know he has little real choice about his successor. Now I’ve demonstrated to him by the death of Abul Fazl that I can act decisively and be as ruthless with my implacable enemies as he was with Hemu, Adham Khan and other traitors, he will be unable to continue to ignore me, I agree. Instead of feeling he must divert his armies from his unfinished southern campaign, I expect him to seek to conciliate me.’