Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (51 page)

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 grabbed 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.’

‘I pray for all our sakes that you’ve read your father aright.’

‘Your grandmother’s caravan is no more than two miles away,’ one of Salim’s
qorchis
announced. Ever since her steward, the stout middle-aged Badakhshani who a few years ago had replaced the white-haired old man Salim had known all his life, had ridden through the gateway into the fortress of Allahabad the day before, Salim had been nervously awaiting Hamida’s arrival. After a few hours’ broken sleep, he had been pacing his apartments since dawn, steeling himself not to call for spirits or opium to calm his racing mind. He would be glad to see his grandmother, which he hadn’t done since he departed from his father’s court many months ago at the beginning of his bid to establish his own authority. Despite his marriages and his love for his mercurial, strong-minded mother, Hamida remained the woman he felt the greatest affection for. He had always been able to rely on her calm sympathy and sound common sense, knowing that she was motivated only by love and affection for him. However, would she understand why he had felt compelled to raise troops against his father? Had his father sent her to him? Had she come on her own initiative? Surely she must bring a message from Akbar, but what would it be? He felt much more uncertain of his father’s reaction than he had claimed to Suleiman Beg when first
hearing of Abul Fazl’s death. Soon he would find out for sure.

‘Thank you. I’ll come to the courtyard immediately to welcome her to Allahabad myself.’

Salim had only been standing for a few minutes beneath the green awning in the sunlit courtyard, which had been strewn with fragrant rose petals on his orders, when he saw through the open metal-bound gates the leading outriders of his grandmother’s procession approach. Then, to the blaring of trumpets and the beating of kettledrums from the gatehouse, the large elephant bearing Hamida slowly entered, the fringes of its long embroidered surcoat – its
jhool
– brushing through the rose petals. The interior of the gilded and jewelled howdah was carefully screened from sun and prying eyes by thin cream gauze curtains.

As soon as the
mahout
had brought the elephant gently down on to its knees, Salim ordered all the male attendants and guards to depart. Then he walked slowly towards the howdah, mounted the small portable platform that had been placed next to it to assist its elderly occupant to descend and opened the gauze curtains. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside, he made out the familiar figure of his grandmother. Although she was now in her seventies, she was sitting as straight-backed as he remembered. Opposite her, head bowed respectfully, was one of her favourite attendants, Zubaida, his old nursemaid whom he had rescued from the ravine in Kashmir. Salim leaned forward and kissed Hamida on the forehead.

‘You are most welcome to my fortress in Allahabad, Grandmother,’ he said, realising as he spoke how awkward, formal and even assertive he sounded.

‘I’m pleased to be here. You’ve been away from your proper place at the heart of our family for far too long.’ Then, perhaps seeing the hardening expression on Salim’s face and anticipating a tirade of exculpation, Hamida continued, ‘We’ll talk about that later. Now help me and Zubaida to descend.’

Towards dusk that evening, Salim walked slowly over to the women’s section of the fortress where he had had the best rooms – those on the highest storey overlooking the Ganges – prepared for his grandmother’s use. Claiming that she was tired after the journey and
needed to wash and refresh herself and then to rest, Hamida had insisted they should not meet again until the heat of the day was dying. This had left Salim yet more time to brood on what message his grandmother might have and to try to interpret the few words they had exchanged. He had even wondered whether Hamida had brought Zubaida, now at least eighty, bent and totally white-haired, with her to remind him both of his childhood and of the times in Kashmir when he was closest to Akbar. Eventually he had abandoned such speculations as futile and filled the time first by practising swordplay with Suleiman Beg and then by luxuriating in the fort’s bathhouse.