Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘That would be my view too, as your khan-i-khanan,’ said Abdul Rahman gently. All around heads were nodding in agreement but Salim, watching his father’s face for a sign, could tell nothing. Akbar’s eyes were half closed and for a moment he was afraid his father was losing consciousness. But then the emperor raised a hand.

  ‘Hassan Amal and Abdul Rahman, I am grateful to you both for your wisdom, as I have been many times before. I can see your words have the support of the majority present. They confirm what was already in my heart. My attendants have brought the imperial turban and robes from my apartments.’

  Salim tensed involuntarily and forced himself to remain calm and look at his father as Akbar continued, ‘All that needs to be done is to summon the mullahs. I wish them to witness that I choose Prince Salim as my heir.’

  As all eyes turned to him, massive relief overcame Salim. He would rule and fulfil his destiny. His face suffused with joy but with tears welling in his eyes, he said, ‘Thank you, Father. I will be worthy of your trust. When the time comes I will need the support of all and I will rule for all.’

  Twenty minutes later, before the council and the ulama, Abdul Rahman placed the imperial green silk turban on Salim’s head, while Hassan Amal draped the imperial robes over his shoulders. Akbar looked at his son for a few moments then said, ‘Before all of you gathered here, I declare my son Salim the next Moghul emperor after my death and I command your obedience to him in all things whatever your own preference may have been. Let me hear you swear your oaths.’

  Throughout the chamber, voice after voice responded, pledging allegiance to Salim. Not even Aziz Koka held back.

  ‘There is one last thing left for me to do.’ Akbar reached beneath the folds of his coverlet and with a shaking hand brought out a jewelled, eagle-hilted sword. ‘This is Alamgir, the sword with which my grandfather Babur extinguished his enemies and conquered an empire. Many times it saved my own life and brought me victory. Salim, I give it into your hands. Be worthy of all it represents.’

  As Salim knelt by his father’s side to take the sword, the eagle’s ruby eyes glittered. Shaikh Salim Chishti had spoken no more than the truth. He would be emperor. His destiny was in his own hands at last.

  A few hours later, Akbar’s hakim Ahmed Malik came to Salim’s apartments. His expression was grave. ‘Your father’s condition has worsened again. However, he remains clear-minded. When he asked us how much of life was left to him, we had to tell him that none of us, his doctors, could say but that he could not survive long. It might be days but perhaps only hours. He said nothing for a minute or two. Then he calmly thanked us for our honesty and for all we had done and were doing to make him comfortable, and requested us to bring you to him again.’

  ‘I will come at once,’ said Salim, putting aside the newly completed painting of a nilgai deer he had commissioned from one of the court artists. He still retained his deep interest in nature and had asked the artist to take particular care to reproduce the muscle structure so he could study it. Only a few minutes later he had crossed the sunlit courtyard, oblivious of the beauty of the fountains bubbling in the marble water channels at its centre, and one of the bodyguards outside his father’s sickroom was pulling aside the fine muslin curtains so he could go in. Neither the scent of the sandalwood and camphor burning in the incense holders nor the constant attentions of Akbar’s faithful servants could quite disguise the pungent sour smell that was the inevitable consequence of the decay of Akbar’s intestines.

  The emperor was propped up against some brocade cushions. To his son, Akbar’s pale face with its purple bags beneath the eyes remained composed as he took a sip of water held to his lips by an attendant and then said, ‘Come and sit by me, Salim. My voice is weakening and I want you to hear my words.’

  Obediently, Salim sat down by his father’s side. As he did so Akbar continued, ‘Ahmed Malik has told me that I will soon leave this world.’

  ‘I pray that will not be the case just yet,’ said Salim, realising as he spoke that there was truth behind his conventional words. Now that the crown he had craved for so long was nearly his, he felt the same apprehension as he had through much of his life. How could he measure up to his father’s achievements? Quietly he added, ‘But if you are to die, you do so happy and confident in your immense achievements.’

  ‘One of the European priests once told me that a philosopher born centuries before the foundation of their Christian faith defined the essence of tragedy as being that no man could be called truly happy until he had died in peace. I have long seen the truth in these words as I have strived to arrange the affairs of our empire for the future so that my work should be built on and not dissipated after I die. Now that my death is near it would help me die in peace if you would truly listen to some parting advice from me.’

  ‘Gladly. Over these last hours since you formally appointed me as your successor I have appreciated the enormity of the responsibility soon to fall on me. I would welcome it.’

  ‘First, remember never to let the empire stagnate. If it does not grow and change by responding to events it can only decline.’

  ‘I understand. I will continue the campaign in the Deccan. Our borders to north, east and west rest on rivers and mountains. The south provides the greatest opportunity for expansion.’

  ‘Second, always be alert for rebellion.’ Salim thought for a moment that Akbar was still reproaching him, but there was no hint of that in Akbar’s face as he continued, ‘One of my historians tells me I’ve overcome more than one hundred and forty rebellions during my reign. They break out when armies have no prospect of campaigns or booty to distract them from plotting.’

  Salim nodded.

  ‘Be tolerant to all, whatever their position or religion, and be merciful whenever you can. It will help unite our subjects. But when your mercy is misinterpreted or the crime heinous, act decisively and ruthlessly so that all may know your power. Avoid the mistakes of my father Humayun. It is better a few die early as an example than many later.’

  ‘I will try not to lash out but to react firmly and with thought,’ Salim replied almost mechanically. What his father was saying was obvious and certainly not new. Perhaps Akbar was congratulating himself as he reviewed his life rather than truly seeking to help him. But then, as if reading Salim’s thoughts, Akbar said, ‘Now for knowledge I have gleaned the hard way from my mistakes.’

  Salim started. It was the first time he had heard his father admit any but the most trivial mistakes.

  ‘Pay attention to your family. Our dynasty is now so much stronger than any potential external rival that the greatest threat to our power must come from dissension among ourselves. My father indulged his half-brothers too much. I wanted to show that power could not be shared and that my authority was absolute. I still believe that is true – that only one man can rule at a time. However, when you and your brothers grew, I expected you to develop my attributes and share my attitudes while unquestioningly obeying my instructions. I did not understand that the two were scarcely compatible. It would never have been in my own nature not to raise questions or to seek independent command if my own father had lived.’

  Salim saw Akbar wince, whether through the pain in his abdomen or the recollection of his behaviour, and said, ‘I will try to make allowances for the ambitions of my sons, but I have already begun to understand how difficult it is.’

  ‘I’ve not helped by unsettling you all, by constantly testing which of you might be the most suitable successor. But even had I not, the longer I have lived the more clearly I have realised that the relationship between parents and children is an unequal one. The parent concentrates his future hopes as well as his love on the child and hence scrutinises and guides him closely. The child resents the burden and longs to strike out independently. He sees all his failings, faults and frustrations as due to his parents and his virtues and successes as solely his own creation. He believes he can do better than the parent if only given a chance.�
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  ‘I see that more clearly now,’ Salim acknowledged, ‘now that my sons are growing older. But I also felt in awe of you and your great and unique achievements. It made me awkward and surly around you. It should not have.’ He paused, but then after a moment continued quietly, ‘I am truly sorry for the pain I gave you.’

  ‘And I for that I inflicted on you. But I now beg only this of you. Learn from the past but look to the future.’ As he spoke, Akbar extended his dry hand towards his eldest son. Salim silently took it in his own, feeling closer to his father than he had done since his early childhood, united with him in their hopes for the dynasty.

  To the slow beating of kettledrums Salim mounted the steps of the marble dais to the throne that awaited him in the Hall of Public Audience in the Agra fort. On his finger was Timur’s ring bearing the emblem of the tiger that he had taken gently from his dead father’s hand nine days ago and placed upon his own. The eagle-hilted Alamgir hung by his side and round his neck was a triple string of uncut emeralds intertwined with pearls that had once belonged to his great-grandfather Babur. A sense of continuity with a heroic past filled Salim with pride. It was as if his ancestors were here among the ranks of his nobles and commanders, watching him claim the throne they had fought so hard for and urging him on to fresh glories.

  Turning, Salim sat down on the green brocade cushions and rested his bejewelled hands on the throne’s golden arms. ‘I have observed nine days of mourning for my respected father, whose body now lies in his favourite gardens in Sikandra where I will construct his tomb with all the magnificence due to him. The khutba was read in my name on Friday in the mosques and the time has come for me to present myself to you as your new emperor.’

  Salim paused and surveyed the rows of men before him as he had so often seen his father do. The world seemed a different place from here. The fate not only of those present but of million upon million of his subjects rested in his hands. It was an awesome, almost godlike responsibility, but also inspiring, and he sat up yet straighter on his throne. As he did so, his eyes met those of Suleiman Beg, standing beside the tall figure of Abdul Rahman, and the faint curve of his milk-brother’s mouth told him he understood exactly how he was feeling.

  Salim looked down at his sons, positioned just below the dais to his right. Eighteen-year-old Khusrau, splendid in a purple silk tunic and with diamonds flashing in his turban, was standing beside the thirteen-year-old Khurram, whose pinched face showed the marks of his continuing grief at the death of the grandfather who had meant so much to him. Sixteen-year-old Parvez was just behind them. They were all of them fine youths but it was Khusrau on whom Salim’s gaze lingered longest. He must forgive Khusrau his rash ambition and find ways to reconcile this mettlesome son. There must be a way to create a bond with him and so break the cycle of frustrated ambition, envy and uncertainty that had blighted his own happiness and his relationship with his father.

  Dragging his mind back to the present, Salim continued his address. ‘I have chosen a new name by which I wish to be known as your emperor. It is Jahangir, ‘Seizer of the World’. I have taken it because the business of kings is seizing their destiny and controlling the world. My father has left me a mighty empire. With your help, my loyal subjects, I pledge to make it mightier still.’

  He rose to his feet and spread his arms, as if taking every man in the room into his embrace. All around the pillared hall rose cries of ‘Long life to Jahangir!’ Such sweet music to his ears.

  ‘Leave me,’ Jahangir ordered his treasurer and the attendants who had accompanied him down the long flight of stone steps to the iron-bound wooden door leading into the treasure chamber concealed beneath one of the stables in the Agra fort.

  ‘Are you sure, Majesty? It is very dark inside the chamber until the lamps are lit and the ground is dank and slippery.’

  ‘Give me your key and leave me a torch, but I wish to be alone here.’

  The treasurer handed over an intricate iron key on a leather thong while a servant passed Jahangir his burning torch of rags dipped in oil. Jahangir waited until the footsteps had receded back up the staircase and he was indeed alone in this dank, earthy-smelling place. He could still scarcely believe the extent of his wealth. The lists of imperial jewels that his treasurer had prepared for him amounted to nearly three hundred and fifty pounds in weight of diamonds, pearls, rubies and emeralds alone. ‘Over six hundred and twenty-five thousand carats of the most precious gems, Majesty,’ the man had pointed out, running his practised finger down the columns, ‘and semi-precious gems too numerous to count, never mind all the gold and silver coin.’

  It was childish of him, but Jahangir had hardly been able to contain his eagerness to visit one of his treasure houses. He turned the key in the solid, well-oiled lock, pushed the heavy wooden door open and, holding the torch high in his left hand, peered inside.

  The chamber was very dark but as Jahangir entered something glimmered in the purple shadows. He held the torch yet higher and on the wall to the left of the door noticed a double row of arched niches where oil lamps had been placed. He lit the lamps from the torch, thrust the torch in a sconce, then looked around him. The chamber was larger than he’d anticipated – some thirty feet long – and the ceiling was supported by two handsome carved sandstone pillars in the middle.

  But what caught his attention were four giant domed caskets on trestles against the back wall. Advancing slowly, he opened the lid of the first to find a mound of blood-red rubies as big as duck eggs. He took a handful and stared at them. How magnificent they were – the queen of gems. For a moment, he saw Mehrunissa’s face as she had dropped her veil. Rubies would suit her and now he was emperor he could give jewels to whoever he chose . . . indeed choose anyone for his wife . . . Tipping them back in, he closed the lid and moved on. The next box contained dark green emeralds in all shapes and sizes, some cut, some uncut. The third box held sapphires and diamonds from the world’s only mine in Golconda in the Deccan, while the fourth was filled with loose pearls. Plunging in his arms up to his elbows, Jahangir felt their lustrous coolness against his skin.

  To the right of the trestles, Jahangir saw open sacks of corals, topazes, turquoises, amethysts and other semi-precious stones heaped casually on the ground. Even just these would be enough to finance an army for a year . . . Suddenly he was laughing aloud. This treasure house held just a tiny fraction of his wealth – it was nothing compared with those in Delhi or Lahore, the treasurer had assured him. Still laughing, Jahangir seized a sack and tipped its contents on the floor, then another, then another, mingling the different coloured gems promiscuously. Then when he had accumulated a great pile he flung himself down on them, rolling from side to side. He was emperor now. A Hindu sage had written that nothing was more disappointing than achieving your heart’s desire. Well, he was wrong. Jahangir flung a fistful of gems into the air and watched them flash like fireflies in the lamplight.

  An hour later, Jahangir emerged blinking into the bright April sunlight, still as light-headed as if he’d been drinking wine or taking opium, but the sight of Suleiman Beg’s anxious face drove all frivolous feelings from him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Treason, Majesty.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who would dare . . .?’

  ‘Your eldest son. As you know, three days ago Prince Khusrau rode out of the Agra fort.’

  ‘I know. He told me he was going to spend some time at Sikandra superintending the construction of my father’s tomb. I gave him instructions for the builders.’

  ‘He was lying. He never meant to go to Sikandra. He’s riding north for Lahore, rendezvousing with his supporters as he goes and bribing new ones to join him. He must have planned this weeks ago. Aziz Koka is with him. The reason I know all this is that Aziz Koka tried to induce your brother-in-law Man Singh to join the rebels but he had the sense to refuse and to bring me word of the plot.’

  Jahangir was barely listening as his mind raced. ‘We can overtake the
m. Have a detachment of my fastest cavalry prepared. I myself will lead them. I have waited so long for what is mine that I’ll let nobody seize it from me. Those who defy me will pay in blood, whoever they are . . .’

  Historical Note

  When people talk about ‘the Great Moghul’ it’s usually Akbar they mean. He was the first Moghul emperor to be born in Hindustan. During his long and successful reign he created an empire of almost unimaginable opulence which covered two-thirds of the Indian sub-continent and had a hundred million ethnically and religiously diverse subjects. By the end of his reign he had almost trebled the size of the empire bequeathed to him by his father Humayun.

  Modesty was seldom a Moghul trait and to ensure future generations appreciated his achievements Akbar employed court chroniclers. Of their works, Abul Fazl’s Akbarnama and Ain-i-Akbari – together amounting to nearly four thousand pages in English translation – are outstanding sources for Akbar’s reign. Despite his florid style and hagiographic language, Abul Fazl conveys Akbar’s charisma and the glamour of his court. He is also meticulous, telling us not only how the emperor defeated his enemies and administered his empire but also the price the court paid for everyday commodities and the detailed arrangements for cooking, for food tasting and for the haram. After Abul Fazl’s murder in 1602, Asad Beg, who had assisted him, took over and documented the final years of Akbar’s life in his Wikaya. Badauni, one of Akbar’s critics, also described the emperor and his court in Muntakhab al-Tawarikh, written in secret towards the end of Akbar’s life.