Ruler of the World

easily.’

‘Could she practise her religion here?’

‘Of course. As I told you, many paths lead to God and to the knowledge of ourselves and the universe we crave. We must each choose our own.’

‘Then I will indeed send her here.’ Akbar rose. ‘Thank you. You have brought me comfort and hope.’

‘I am glad. But there is something else I should tell you, and this time you may not welcome it.’

‘What is it?’ Akbar placed his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder, still sinewy and strong beneath his coarse woollen robe.

‘Though you will have three strong sons, remember that love of power, the desire to possess it, can poison even the closest family bonds. Do not take the love of your sons for you — or for each other — for granted.’

‘What do you mean? Are you speaking of family rivalries like those my father endured?’

‘I’m not sure, Majesty. Though I foresee that you will have sons and your empire will flourish, beyond that I see shadows. They are as yet without shape, but perhaps they carry a warning. Be vigilant, Majesty. Remember my words. Keep watch over your sons as they grow to manhood so you can dispel those shadows before they take substance and do harm. .’

Riding back towards Agra later that day, Akbar pondered the Sufi’s warning. So many times since the days of his ancestor Timur the Moghuls had almost destroyed themselves by turning on each other rather than their enemies. He would watch for the signs and be on his guard. But all that lay far off in the future. Buoyed by the thought of three sons Akbar urged his horse to a yet faster pace.

Six weeks later the khawajasara’s delighted face told Akbar everything he needed to know.

‘Majesty, at last it has happened.’

‘When will the child be born?’

‘The hakim says in August.’

‘I will go to the haram now.’ Akbar struggled to restrain tears of joy as he half ran to the women’s quarters. When he entered Hirabai’s apartments he smelled the familiar sweet spiciness of the incense sticks she always kept burning in a brass pot before a statue of an unsmiling, many-armed goddess. Hirabai was sitting on a low, lacquered Rajput stool as one of her maids combed out her thick hennaed hair. It seemed to Akbar that his wife’s face, grown so angular and drawn, was already softening and that her skin had a new bloom. Yet if he’d hoped for any softening in her manner to him he was disappointed. Her expression as she looked up at him was as distant and unyielding as ever.

‘Leave us,’ Akbar ordered the maid. As soon as they were alone, he asked, ‘Is it true? You really are pregnant?’

‘Yes. Surely the khawajasara told you.’

‘I wanted to hear it from my wife as a husband should. Hirabai — you are carrying my child, perhaps the future Moghul emperor. Is there nothing I can do or say to make you look more kindly on me or to make you happier?’

‘The only way would be to send me back to Amber, but that is impossible.’

‘You will be a mother soon. Does that mean nothing to you?’

Hirabai hesitated. ‘I will love the child because the blood of my people will flow through its veins. But I will not pretend to feelings for you that I can never have. All I pray is that you take other wives and leave me in peace.’

‘Bear me a healthy son and I promise never to lie with you again.’ Hirabai said nothing. ‘I want you to make ready for a journey a week from now.’

‘Where are you sending me?’ For the first time her cold demeanour faltered and she looked anxious.

‘Don’t be afraid. I wish you to go to a place of good omen — Sikri. I did not tell you this before because I know you distrust my religion, but a Muslim mystic lives there. He predicted you would bear me a son and asked me to send you there, to a monastery where you will be well tended until the child is born. I will send the best of my hakims with you and you may take all the attendants you wish. The air is good there — cooler and healthier than in Agra. It will be beneficial for you and the child you carry and you may worship your own gods there.’

Hirabai looked down at her hands folded on her lap. ‘It will be as you wish, of course.’

‘Shall I send word to your brother?’

Hirabai nodded. Akbar waited a few moments, hoping she might say something else. ‘I will love the child,’ she had said, but would she? If she hated the father, what affection could she feel for the son? For a moment he pondered the Sufi’s warning. Was his wife’s hostility one of the distant shadows he had glimpsed? With a last searching look at Hirabai’s half-averted face, he left her. Free from the frigid aura surrounding her, he felt the warmth of his happiness returning. He was going to have a son. .

‘I name you Salim after the holy man who predicted your birth.’

Holding the squirming body of his new-born son in the crook of his left arm, with his right hand Akbar picked up a saucer of small gold coins and poured them gently over the baby’s head. Salim threshed about, flexing tiny fists, but though he screwed up his face he didn’t howl. Smiling with pride, Akbar lifted Salim high so all could see him. Then he placed him on a large green velvet cushion held by his elderly vizier Jauhar. It was the turn of the black-turbaned Shaikh Ahmad, head of the ulama, to speak. What did he really think about blessing the child of a Hindu mother? His face, bland above his bushy dark beard, gave nothing away. Whatever his inner feelings, he and his clique had lost the battle — defeated by the birth of this child who as yet knew nothing of the tensions of the world.

After thanking God for Salim’s birth, the priest said portentously: ‘We whom His Imperial Majesty have summoned here to Sikri hail the auspicious birth of this world-illuminating pearl of the mansion of dominion and fortune, this night-gleaming jewel of the casket of greatness and glory. Prince Salim, may God guide you and pour an ocean of divine bounty upon you.’

Later that night, Akbar slipped from the huge many-canopied brocade tent specially erected in Sikri for the feast celebrating his son’s birth. For a while he had joined in the slurred singing, circling arm in arm with Ahmed Khan and his other commanders in some semblance of the old dances of the Moghul homelands — not that many could remember the steps. But now there was something he felt he must do. Calling for his horse, he mounted and taking only a few of his guards, rode slowly through the warm night air, scented by the still-smoking dung fires over which the villagers of Sikri had cooked their evening meal, towards the nearby monastery where Hirabai was still lodged. Glancing up it seemed to him that the stars, so beloved by his own father Humayun, had never seemed so numerous or so lustrous. It was as if they had found a special radiance to shed upon the earth that now held his son — the son he must do everything to protect. Even now, at a time of so much happiness, he could not forget the Sufi’s words of caution. .

‘It is the emperor!’ shouted one of his guards as the arched entrance of the monastery appeared before them. Orange-clad Rajput soldiers from Amber to whom Akbar had awarded the honour of protecting the Empress stood to attention and their captain stepped forward.

‘Welcome, Majesty.’

Akbar dismounted and tossing his reins to his qorchi walked through the gateway into a small, dimly lit courtyard. As the cry went up again, ‘It is the emperor!’ one of Hirabai’s Rajput maids appeared through the shadows carrying an oil lamp whose tiny flame flickered and danced.

‘Please take me to my wife.’

Hirabai was lying propped on blue cotton cushions on a low bed. Salim was feeding at her breast and Akbar saw a contentment in her face he had never witnessed before. It was so unexpected it made her seem almost a stranger. But as she looked at him, the glow faded. ‘Why have you come? You should be at the feast attending to your guests.’

‘I felt a sudden need to see my son. . and my wife.’

Hirabai said nothing, but took Salim from her breast and handed him to her maid. The baby began to cry, angry at having his feeding so abruptly ended, but Hirabai signalled to the maid to take him away.

‘Hirabai — I have come here to make one last appeal to you. For the rest of our lives Salim will be a link of