The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  “We shall lose the element of surprise if we stay here tonight, your Highness. The governor, Qulich Khan, will have time to prepare for a siege. We must proceed,” Mahabat said firmly.

  “But when Qulich Khan sees us approaching with an army, he is sure to be suspicious,” Salim replied, running a hand through his hair. It was dusty. He had not bathed in a week; there had been no time. “We are all tired from the march. How can we defend ourselves if Qulich attacks?”

  “Not so, your Highness,” Mahabat said. “What is more natural than a royal prince entering the fort with his army? He will not suspect anything.”

  Salim looked at Mahabat and then back at his army, struggling to make the decision required. Finally he said, “Let us march on, then.” The soldiers wearily lifted their shields and spears and mounted their lagging horses.

  The sun was setting in the western sky as they neared the fort. The Agra fort, built in red sandstone, was ablaze in crimson. It seemed quiet. There were no signs of undue activity. Salim relaxed in his saddle and allowed his shoulders to fall back. Mahabat was right. Qulich had not heard of their arrival. He would simply march into the fort and take over the treasury. Nothing could be simpler.

  They reached the Delhi gateway, the western approach to the fort. Salim’s fatigue began to disappear, and his spirits lifted. He knew that there was no turning back now; he would either capture the treasury or spend his life fleeing from the imperial army. The trip had been made in the greatest secrecy, but Salim knew that there were no secrets from the Emperor. Akbar had built a mighty empire, and one of the bastions of that empire was his superb spy system. Their only hope was to reach Agra before the Emperor could inform Qulich Khan of their intentions.

  Now it seemed his wishes had been fulfilled. Everything appeared to be quiet and normal. The huge wooden gates were shut and the drawbridge drawn up, but that was not unusual. He held up his hand and reined in his horse at the moat.

  Salim turned to Mahabat and nodded.

  “Open the gateway. His Highness, Prince Salim has arrived!” Mahabat yelled out to the guard at the tower.

  The huge gates swung open in silence, and the drawbridge was let down on well-oiled wheels. Salim spurred his horse forward eagerly.

  Just then, a small entourage came out, led by the governor.

  “Welcome to Agra, your Highness.” Qulich Khan bowed to the prince. “Please accept these gifts on behalf of the city.” He gestured toward the attendants behind him, who carried large silver trays piled with satins and silks. “It is indeed a great honor for us . . .”

  A sudden noise distracted Salim. He looked up. Cannons had been silently wheeled to the ramparts. They lined the battlements, their black, ugly mouths pointed at his army. The bulwark of the fort, which had looked benign a few minutes ago, was filled with soldiers bearing muskets. Qulich Khan’s intentions were clear.

  “Your Highness, we can easily take the fort. There are not many soldiers,” Mahabat said in an undertone.

  Salim shook his head. The time had not yet come to clash with the imperial forces. His men were tired and could hardly keep upright in the saddle. By contrast, Qulich’s army looked well rested and ready for battle. Koka and Abdullah came up to add to Mahabat Khan’s pleas. Qulich Khan was finishing his speech, and Salim was struck by his last sentence.

  “What did you say?” he asked the old man.

  “Her Majesty, the Dowager Empress Maryam Makani, wishes to welcome you, your Highness,” Qulich Khan repeated.

  His grandmother! Salim felt his face go hot. He could not go in front of Maryam Makani while he was in revolt against his father. Suddenly, he felt like a child again; he could remember Maryam Makani’s imperious voice as she scolded him for mischief. That decided it. If his grandmother wanted to see him, he had best leave before she turned a thirty-one-year-old man into a child with her quelling stare. Salim thought quickly. He had to get out of this situation with as much grace as possible.

  “I have just arrived at Agra to make sure that you are taking good care of the imperial treasury, Qulich Khan.”

  “Your Highness’s concern is understandable.”

  Was that sarcasm in his voice? Salim dismissed the thought and went on. “I leave Agra in your hands, and I am sure that you will guard the fort in a responsible manner. Tell my grandmother I regret I cannot wait upon her at this time.”

  Qulich Khan bowed. “You can rely on me, your Highness. I will serve the Emperor with my life if necessary.”

  “Good. Good.” Salim turned to his men. “Let us continue on our way.”

  The army retreated. As he was leaving, Salim looked back at the fort. Within its walls lay the imperial treasury filled with riches that would have given him his dream. Qulich Khan stood at the gates, his arms folded across his chest, a grim look on his face. He bowed again to the prince. Salim nodded and turned back.

  Disappointed and weary to the bone, Salim with his army reached the banks of the Yamuna river at Agra. His plans had failed. Akbar would hear of this, and he would be furious. The Emperor might even be on his way back from the Deccan.

  Salim rubbed at his temples tiredly. Again he had failed, as he seemed to fail at everything he tried. Somehow the governor of Agra had known he was coming. And if he knew, the Emperor must know too. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with his father. He had to leave Agra and go somewhere safe. He watched the river flow past, and a thought struck him. He could go to his estates at Allahabad and plan his next course of action from there. Right now, he could not think; he just needed to rest. Salim called Mahabat Khan and commanded a barge to carry him down the Yamuna to Allahabad. The army was to follow by land.

  As Salim’s barge departed down the river, one man stood thoughtfully in the gathering dusk, watching as the barge was swallowed up in the darkness.

  Ali Quli turned and walked away slowly.

  Faced by the imperial army in Agra, he had realized the magnitude of the folly he was about to commit if he betrayed his Emperor. He could not follow the prince to Allahabad. It was not cowardly of him to desert Salim at this time, merely prudent. And the Emperor was still much stronger than the prince. It was simply a matter of choosing the right leader, and he chose the Emperor. He had no intention of spending his entire life following the prince in his recklessness.

  While Salim’s army was preparing for the march to Allahabad, Ali Quli slipped unnoticed into the city and went to his father-in-law’s house. A week later, he sent a message to Mehrunnisa at Lahore, commanding her presence at Agra.

  • • •

  AKBAR PACED HIS apartments, hands clasped behind his back, an angry flush on his face. He reached the end of the room and turned abruptly, his silken sash flying out around him.

  The Emperor stalked up to the silent figure. “We cannot agree to the prince’s terms.” His voice shook with rage.

  Khwaja Jahan cringed. “Your Majesty, the prince is truly repentant. He wishes for a reconciliation.”

  Akbar glared at Salim’s emissary. “If he wanted our forgiveness, he would not put conditions on our clemency. Why has he come with a large army to beg our pardon? He must disband his army and come to us with only a few attendants.” Akbar paused and said, “Take this message back to him. We shall see him alone, without his army. And we will not grant immunity to his followers.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Khwaja Jahan bowed. He backed away slowly.

  Akbar spoke again, “Tell the prince that he must obey our orders. If he cannot do so, he can return to Allahabad. We will not grant him permission to wait on us.”

  Khwaja Jahan bowed again and let himself out of the room.

  When the door shut behind him, Akbar sat down heavily and ran his fingers through his hair. Why was Salim rebelling against him? Salim had tried to capture the royal treasury at Agra, and he might well have succeeded if Akbar had not had an efficient spy system. Upon hearing of Salim’s march from Ajmer, the Emperor had warned Qulich Khan. Now his errant son had
set up court at Allahabad. The news was that he was playing king, granting jagirs to his followers and issuing farmans and titles to his loyal supporters.

  The Emperor had to come rushing back from the Deccan from his siege on the fort of Asir. Fortunately, the fort had fallen just before news arrived of Salim’s duplicity. So Akbar had sent two runners to Agra and followed almost at their heels, winding up his affairs in a hurry and leaving Abul Fazl to carry on the rest of the campaign.

  After six months of negotiations with Salim’s emissary, Khwaja Jahan, Akbar had finally agreed to meet with his son. But Salim had imprudently come to Agra with an army of seventy thousand cavalry and infantry, as if he were on campaign.

  Akbar stared unseeingly out of the window. After he had spent so many years carefully nurturing his son, Salim had rebelled— and all this, for the throne of the empire.

  The Emperor was still in his apartments when news was brought to him of his son’s response. The prince had decided to return to Allahabad. He did not wish to disband his army.

  Akbar dismissed the messenger with a frown. Something would have to be done about Salim. Who was the best person to advise him?

  His brow cleared. Abul Fazl, of course. Apart from his duties as head chancellor, Fazl had also been tutor to the royal princes. Perhaps he could talk some sense into his son. The Emperor called for the royal scribes. An imperial farman was sent posthaste, commanding Fazl’s presence at court.

  • • •

  “THE EMPEROR HAS called for Abul Fazl, your Highness,” Mahabat Khan said.

  Salim looked at his courtier in dismay. “Are you sure?”

  Mahabat nodded. “The runner was spending the night at a wine house and talked too much. One of our men heard the news.”

  Salim slumped down on the cushions of his throne. He had ordered a black slate throne carved at Allahabad and called himself Sultan Salim Shah in defiance of his father’s command to disband his army and come to him unarmed.

  Many months had passed since that mad dash to Agra to capture the treasury, a few more after that fateful attempt at reconciliation with Akbar. Now, the Emperor was going to call upon Fazl. Why Fazl? What good would that do? Abul Fazl had never liked him, but he was one of the Emperor’s closest confidantes, the man to whom he had entrusted the care of his sons. He had sent Fazl to the Deccan to look after Murad, who had died soon after his arrival. Now he wanted to bring him back to attend to another son. Akbar was devoted to Abul Fazl, even more so since he had finished the Akbarnama, bestowing great honors on him for that work. But Akbar had not read three volumes of the Akbarnama. He had merely looked at them with awe.

  This great Mughal Emperor was illiterate; he could neither read nor write. However, that had not stopped Akbar from cultivating the acquaintance of the most learned and cultured poets, authors, musicians, and architects of the time—relying solely on his remarkable memory during conversations with them.

  Salim sighed. So much . . . the Emperor always did so much with his time. He slept but little, only four hours every night, and each day was filled with state duties, time at the harem, time with the court musicians and painters and poets. And he, Salim, found it hard to even run his little kingdom within the empire.

  “Why has the Emperor called for Fazl?” he asked.

  “To resolve this dispute between yourself and his Majesty, no doubt,” Mahabat replied.

  “Abul Fazl will only make matters worse. He has never been my friend. He has always spoken against me to the Emperor,” Salim said. “If he comes to court, I shall not be able to see my dear father again. The Emperor will never allow me to wait on him.”

  A short silence followed. Mahabat, Koka, Abdullah, and Sharif looked at one another significantly. Fazl’s arrival at court would be disastrous for them, too. They were already facing charges of sedition, and the Emperor’s army was itching to lay hands on them. Fazl might convince Akbar to forgive Salim, but their own heads lay on very uneasy shoulders; unfortunately they could claim no kinship to the Emperor.

  “What shall I do?” Salim asked. “We can return to Agra, and I shall beg forgiveness from his Majesty.”

  “No, your Highness,” Sharif said firmly. “We have to let some time pass before you return. Right now . . . ,” he hesitated, “the Emperor is very upset and will not be reasonable.”

  “But there is no chance that he will relent before Fazl gets here. And that man will only make matters worse,” Salim said again. He knew why a reconciliation with Akbar was not prudent right now for his courtiers. But he would protect them from his father’s wrath. They had thrown in their lot with him; he could do no less. However, Fazl would not help. This Salim firmly believed. He would only be a disruptive influence. What was the alternative?

  “Then he must not go to Agra,” Koka said in his slow manner, his pasty face lit by cunning.

  Salim looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean? He has been commanded by the Emperor. He will return to Agra from the Deccan.”

  “True. But the journey from the Deccan is very . . . ,” Koka hesitated delicately, “shall we say, hazardous, fraught with danger? Who knows,” he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “Fazl may never complete the trip.”

  Salim stared at him, his pulse racing. Did he dare do what Koka was suggesting? It would be dangerous; he was already in trouble with Akbar. But it seemed he had no other options. It was this or nothing else. The risk that Fazl would reach Agra safely and further poison his father’s ear, and perhaps convince him to leave the throne to Daniyal, was too great. He looked around quickly; they were alone in the reception hall. All the attendants had been dismissed.

  Nevertheless, he lowered his voice and leaned toward his men. “You are right. After all, we live in dangerous times. Robbers and thieves infest our highways. A little accident, a small mishap, and, who knows?” He spread his hands.

  The five men smiled at one another.

  “Who is the best person for the . . . ah . . . job?”

  “Bir Singh Deo, your Highness,” Mahabat replied promptly.

  “The Bundela Rajput chieftain from Orchha?” Salim frowned. “Isn’t he in revolt against the empire?”

  “Yes, but Bir Singh is a mercenary. If we make it worth his while, he will undertake any job for us. Besides, it is well known that you are at odds with the Emperor, and Bir Singh likes to fight the interests of the empire.”

  “If you think he is the right person—,” Salim began, reluctantly.

  “He is, your Highness,” Abdullah cut in. “No shadow of suspicion should fall upon you, and therefore the . . . ah . . . assassin must be someone unconnected to your court.”

  Salim rubbed his chin. “You are right. Fazl is a minister of state, and the Emperor will not take his death lightly,. He will surely hunt down his killer.” He looked up. “Can we trust Bir Singh? What if he betrays us?”

  Mahabat smiled; it was actually more of a grimace. “He cannot. Even if the Emperor forgives him for this deed, there are others for which he is equally guilty. He knows he cannot escape with his life. He will go back into hiding in Orchha. After all, the Bundelas have lived there for years, successfully avoiding the imperial forces.”

  Salim stared at his courtiers. There was no turning back now from this decision. All he had done so far paled in comparison to this command of his, but it was essential.

  “Send for Bir Singh. There is no time to be lost.”

  • • •

  ABUL FAZL WAS informed of the plot to kill him, but he made no change in his route. His reasoning was simple: Akbar had commanded his presence posthaste. So he increased the number of his bodyguards and set out. Fazl and his men were attacked three times and fought off their assailants. A fourth time, when Fazl was passing through the village of Sur, the Bundelas set upon him and his men again. Heavy fighting ensued. Fazl managed to stave off the assassins but, injured and bleeding, was forced to lie down under a tree to rest. There, the Bundela chief found him, conscious but in great pain, and s
liced off his head.

  NINE

  My intention . . . is to point out that no evil fortune is greater than when a son, through the impropriety of his conduct and his unapproved methods of behavior . . . becomes contumacious and rebellious to his father, without cause or reason . . .

  —A. Rogers, trans., and H. Beveridge, ed., The Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri

  THE EMPEROR SAT MOTIONLESS IN his darkened apartments, silken curtains drawn across the windows. Tears ran down his cheeks, soaking into the brocade collar of his qaba.

  Akbar closed his eyes and leaned back on the velvet bolster. He had been looking forward to Fazl’s arrival. Instead, two runners had brought him news of his death. Akbar had lost a dear and valued friend in Abul Fazl. But more than that, it seemed as though his son had had a hand in the murder. Could it be possible? Had Salim planned Fazl’s death?

  Akbar raised a trembling hand and wiped his tears. His soldiers had found Fazl’s beheaded body under a tree. The minister was not even allowed to die with dignity. Now his spies told him that the head had been sent to Salim. How could his son cold-heartedly murder his father’s friend? Rebellion was one thing, but murder . . .

  Akbar buried his face in his sleeve. Three days had passed since the news of Fazl’s death, and he had shut himself up in his apartments, seeing no one, talking with no one, not even with the ladies of his harem. What had he done to deserve such sons? Murad was dead, Daniyal was a dissolute youth given to drinking and opium, and Salim . . . he had done more to break his father’s heart than either of his brothers.