Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (48 page)

‘I thought you said she was veiled.’

‘For a moment her veil slipped.’

‘That was clever of her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s the daughter of a petty official living in an outpost of your
empire.’ Suleiman Beg spat a tough piece of nut on to the floor but Salim knew it was Kabul he’d really like to spit on. Suleiman Beg was bored here and couldn’t wait to return to Hindustan. ‘That was her chance to catch your eye. Much better to be an imperial concubine than left to fester here.’

Perhaps Suleiman Beg was right, Salim thought. In his mind’s eye he recaptured that moment when her veil had slipped. Had it been by design? And had she delayed raising it again just long enough for him to see her face? If so, then all to the good. It meant she wanted him too. He stood up. ‘I don’t desire her merely as a concubine. I wish her to be my wife.’

Dusk was falling when an attendant brought Salim word that Ghiyas Beg had come to the citadel. As soon as the Persian was shown into his apartment, Salim said eagerly, ‘Ghiyas Beg, I summoned you here not as your prince but – or so I hope – as your future son-in-law. I want to marry your daughter. Give me Mehrunissa and I will make her first among my wives and first in my heart.’

Ghiyas Beg’s eyes widened. Instead of the smiles Salim had anticipated, he looked agitated.

‘What is it, Ghiyas Beg?’

‘Highness, what you ask is impossible.’

‘I don’t understand . . . I thought you would welcome my offer.’

‘I do, Highness. It is a great honour, an unimaginable honour. But I must repeat what I said. It is out of the question.’

‘Why?’ Without realising what he was doing Salim stepped forward and grabbed Ghiyas Beg’s thin arm above the elbow.

‘My daughter is already promised.’

‘To whom?’

‘To one of your father’s commanders in Bengal, Sher Afghan. As a man of honour, I cannot break off their betrothal. I am truly sorry, Highness.’

‘H
ighness, a letter has arrived for you from Lahore.’

Salim’s
qorchi
handed him a green leather pouch secured by a twist of gold wire from which the imperial seal was dangling. Inside, Salim found a thick piece of paper folded into four and opened it to see Abul Fazl’s familiar handwriting – lines and lines of it. As usual, it was only towards the bottom of the page after all the empty airy courtesies that Salim found the real meat of what his father’s chronicler had to say:

His gracious Majesty the emperor, in his great and fathomless mercy commands you to return immediately to Lahore where he has fresh tasks he wishes you to undertake. He asks me to say that he hopes that from this time forward your footsteps will return to the path of righteousness and you will become a dutiful son who will never again deviate in the manner that has so distressed and disappointed him
.

Salim handed the letter to Suleiman Beg, who grinned broadly as he read it. ‘I was afraid we might be stuck here for years.’

‘It’s typical that the style and even the seals are Abul Fazl’s and not my father’s. Nevertheless, I didn’t expect to be recalled after only eight months. I’m surprised.’

‘You might look more cheerful about it. You’re not still obsessed
with that Persian girl, are you? When you get back to your wives and
haram
you’ll realise she was no more than a passing fancy because you were bored.’

Salim considered. How did he really feel? His relationship – friendship even – with Ghiyas Beg had made his stay in Kabul much less irksome than it might have been, and after seeing Mehrunissa she had occupied his mind as much as thoughts of returning to court. But since Ghiyas Beg’s rejection of his offer of marriage to her a constraint had inevitably sprung up between them. Salim’s visits to the Persian’s house had grown less frequent and of course he had not seen Mehrunissa again. He had, however, discovered that she was not due to wed Sher Afghan until the following year. Perhaps back in Lahore he could persuade his father to use his influence with Ghiyas Beg. If the emperor himself commanded Mehrunissa’s betrothal to be broken off, Ghiyas Beg as a loyal subject could only obey . . .

The long journey back down through the passes from Kabul, across the Indus and the other mighty rivers of the Punjab, had gone swiftly and well, and unencumbered by a slow baggage train Salim had reached Lahore in only six weeks. At each passing mile his spirits had risen with the heat of the plains around him. However, as he stood in Akbar’s private apartments, alone before his father for the first time since his banishment, Salim felt himself trembling with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

‘I am glad to see you safely returned from Kabul.’ Akbar spoke first, his face inscrutable. ‘I regret that we parted in anger but you left me no choice but to punish you. I hope that during your absence you reflected on the duty that a son owes to his father and that in future you will behave accordingly.’

What about the duty a father owes to his son, thought Salim, but all he said was, ‘I know what is due to you and I am grateful that you have forgiven me my past errors and recalled me to the court.’

‘Your errors were grave. I had intended you to stay longer in
Kabul, but your grandmother persuaded me to send for you.’ Akbar’s tone was still stiff.

‘Father, Abul Fazl’s letter mentioned you had further tasks for me. I am eager to serve you . . . I . . .’

‘In due course,’ Akbar interrupted him. ‘You acquitted yourself well in Kabul – Abul Fazl tells me your reports were thorough and Saif Khan confirmed your good behaviour – but I have not decided what I wish you to do next.’

So Saif Khan had indeed been spying on him. Salim persisted, ‘A governorship perhaps, like Murad?’

‘There is no need for haste. I wish to see whether you maintain your good conduct, and I will tell you my decision about any appointment if and when the time comes.’

Salim tried not to show his disappointment but knew it must be written on his face. He had been hoping his return could mark a new beginning in his relationship with his father, but yet again it seemed he would have to be patient. Perhaps his grandmother would again use her influence on his behalf as she had to hasten his return. However, even if this was not the ideal time, there was something else he could not delay in asking Akbar, and he must ask in person.

‘Father, may I request a favour?’

‘What is it?’ Akbar looked genuinely surprised.

‘I wish to take a further wife.’

‘Who?’ Akbar’s expression was now one of absolute astonishment.

‘The daughter of Ghiyas Beg, your treasurer in Kabul,’ Salim said, and before Akbar could respond continued, ‘but there is a difficulty. She is already promised to one of your commanders in Bengal, Sher Afghan, and Ghiyas Beg believes it would be dishonourable to go back on the arrangement. But if you intervened, Ghiyas Beg and Sher Afghan would have to obey you and . . .’

‘Enough! I had hoped that your months in exile would have taught you some sense, but I see I was wrong. It is bad enough that you want to marry a woman of obscure family – an alliance that can bring no possible benefit to our dynasty – but it beggars belief that you can then ask me to interfere in the lives of my subjects to bring it to pass.’

‘It’s not a passing whim. Her name is Mehrunissa. I can’t get her from my mind.’

‘You will have to. I will not disrupt the marriage plans of Sher Afghan, a loyal, brave fighter, so you can satisfy your insatiable lusts.’

‘It’s not lust . . .’

‘Really? It seems to me you have developed a taste for other men’s women.’ Akbar’s tone was brutal and his reference to Anarkali stung. Salim swallowed. What could he say in his defence that Akbar would believe? If he compared his passion to Humayun’s on first seeing Hamida, as he had so often done in his own mind, it would only enrage his father.

After a moment’s painful silence Akbar said wearily, ‘Leave me. You make me despair. I had hoped our reunion would be happier but I can see you have not conquered your vices. You still need to learn self-control. Young as he is, your son Khurram understands the difference between right and wrong better than you.’

As Salim walked swiftly from his father’s apartments tears of anger and hurt pricked his eyelids. Akbar never tried to understand him and seemingly never would. His father did, however, choose his words carefully for their effect. Was his reference to Khurram a hint that his own son was better qualified to rule than he was? Surely not . . . however well omened his birth, Khurram was no more than a precocious child.

Salim opened the painted wooden box, took out a glass jar and held it up to the light with hands that were not quite steady. Good. There were enough opium pellets to last him until morning. Flipping up the jar’s silver lid, Salim tipped two pellets into a goblet then poured in some rosewater. He smiled as he watched the pellets dissolve, unleashing their smoky grey trail until only a few stubborn granules remained. He swirled the water with his index finger then raised the goblet to his lips. After a few minutes, feeling the opium begin to do its wonderful work, he took another few swallows of the strong red wine he had been drinking all day.

That felt even better. Salim lay back on a silk-covered mattress
by the balustrade enclosing the balcony of his apartments. The sounds of horses’ hooves and men’s voices rising from the courtyard below seemed to come from farther and farther away as he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the delicious languor that in recent weeks had become increasingly necessary to his well-being. It was an antidote both to his father’s cold equivocation whenever he asked about an appointment and to his sons’ discomfort and embarrassment whenever he broached any topic other than the most banal with them. They had changed towards him while he had been away. Though they were unfailingly polite, he sensed no warmth or intimacy.

Neither his mother Hirabai nor his grandmother Hamida had had anything constructive to offer either. His mother had voiced only contempt for Akbar and the Moghuls in general. Hamida, however sympathetic and loving her tone, had only had kind words of consolation and the advice to wait. She had reiterated how much his affair with Anarkali had hurt Akbar and how much he detested the thought that it would be the subject of common gossip among the people and damage the image they had of him as all-powerful. Consequently she had had great difficulty in securing Akbar’s agreement to his return from banishment so she could do no more for the present.

The opium and the wine relaxed Salim’s mind and body. They blunted painful thoughts, soothed his aching disappointments and transported him to places where nothing seemed to matter much. He felt a small insect crawl over his naked chest but the effort it would require to crush it seemed too great. Live, little creature, whatever you are, he thought and laughed softly. He readjusted his position. The soft, warm silk of the mattress felt wonderful – like the skin of a woman. Perhaps later he would go to the
haram
and make love to Man Bai or Jodh Bai, though that also seemed too much effort, particularly since they too had scarcely seemed wholehearted in their welcome to him. In fact, when he thought about it he realised he hadn’t seen any of his wives or indeed his sons for days. But why should he when he was so content just lying here? For a second, Mehrunissa’s striking face was before him. But Suleiman Beg was probably right. She was just another woman . . .