Ruler of the World

female or male, and to the respect that is due to them as individuals, not just as elements in your hierarchy of empire. . to do otherwise will be your loss as a man and eventually as an emperor.’

‘You judge me too harshly. I do respect you, Mother — and you too, Aunt. I know without your help I might never have been emperor and I am grateful.’

‘Then prove it by your behavior, not only to us but to others close to you, like your sons. You were unavoidably absent from them for many months while you were away fighting. Now you have returned you should be spending more time with them, getting to know them better rather than leaving them so much to the care of their tutors.’

Akbar nodded as if accepting her words, but inside he felt resentment stir. He needed no advice on how to govern or how to behave, and even less on how to treat his sons.

‘Majesty, the Christian priests you summoned here from Goa have arrived.’

‘Thank you, Jauhar, I will come shortly.’ Akbar turned to Abul Fazl, to whom he had been dictating an account of some new reforms to the method of tax-gathering within his empire. ‘We will continue later. I want the chronicle to be as detailed as possible.’

‘Indeed, Majesty. Those who come after you can learn many lessons from your manifest glorious success in every aspect of the administration of your expanding empire.’

Akbar allowed himself a quick smile. Over the years since he had appointed Abul Fazl his chronicler, he had grown used to his sometimes overblown and florid language and to his meticulous recording of every aspect of court life. When, six weeks ago, he had been gashed in the groin by the antlers of a stag while out hunting, Abul Fazl had recorded proudly that the application of a healing ointment was left ‘to the writer of this book of fortune’. But he had come to realise that his chronicler was no fool. Even if Abul Fazl wrapped his advice in formulaic high-flown compliments, unlike many of his other courtiers he didn’t just say what he thought the emperor wanted to hear but spoke with common sense and objectivity, and Akbar had begun consulting him more and more.

‘Come with me. I want you to see these strange creatures. I hear that some of them shave their skulls almost bald, leaving just a thin circle of hair.’

‘I will be interested to observe them. According to what I’ve heard, their own people treat them with great reverence and indeed seem almost afraid of them. If I might ask, why did you invite them to your court, Majesty?’

‘I am curious about their religion. Unlike the faith of my Hindu subjects, of which I now understand a little, I know almost nothing of their god, except that they believe he was once a man who after being killed came back to life.’

‘They have only one god then, like us?’

‘So it would seem, except that — as I understand — they believe this god has three incarnations — they call them the father, the son and the holy ghost. Perhaps they resemble the Hindu trinity of Vishnu, Shiva and Brahma.’

Twenty minutes later, diamonds flashing in his turban, Akbar took his place on the throne placed in the balustraded, pulpit-like space at the intersection of the four slender, diagonal walkways supported by the richly- carved central column in his diwan-i-khas. Assembled below were the members of his council. He noticed Salim standing towards the back. It was good that the boy was here. He had probably never seen Europeans before.

‘Bring in the visitors,’ Akbar ordered the qorchi standing at his side. In a few moments, to the booming of drums from a musicians’ gallery, the youth ushered the priests through a doorway that gave on to one of the balconies and out on to one of the walkways leading to where Akbar was sitting. When the two men, dark robes almost touching the floor, had advanced to within a dozen feet of Akbar, the squire signalled them to halt. Akbar saw that one man was small and sturdily built while the other was taller and paler, the skin of his bald head much freckled by the sun.

Akbar motioned the interpreter standing behind his throne to step closer. ‘Tell them they are welcome at my court.’ However, instead of waiting for the interpreter, the smaller of the two priests addressed Akbar directly in perfect court Persian.

‘You are gracious to invite us to Fatehpur Sikri. We are Jesuit priests. My name is Father Francisco Henriquez. I am a Persian by birth and was once a follower of Islam, though now I am a Christian. My companion is Father Antonio Monserrate.’

‘In your reply to my letter of invitation, you spoke of truths you wished to reveal to me. What are they?’

Father Francisco looked grave. ‘They would take many hours to explain, Majesty, and you would run out of patience. But we have brought you a gift — our Christian gospels written in Latin, the language of our church. We know that you have many scholars at your court, among whom will be those able to translate them for you. Perhaps when you have had a chance to read what is written in our gospels we could talk again.’

They were well informed in some respects, Akbar thought. It was true that he employed learned men — some to translate the chronicles recounting the deeds of his Timurid ancestors from Turki into Persian, others to translate Hindu volumes from their original Sanskrit. However, what the visiting priests clearly didn’t know was that he himself still couldn’t read. Ahmed Khan had tried to teach him during the long, rain-drenched hours sailing down the Jumna and the Ganges to fight Shah Daud, and in the year since his return Akbar had tried again, but the script still danced before his eyes. Yet frustrating as he found his failure, it had only fed his passion for books and the wisdom they contained. He always had a scholar on hand to read to him and was assembling a great library to rival any of the collections once held by his ancestors in far-off Samarkand and Herat.

‘I will have your gift translated, and as soon as the first pages are ready we will talk again. I trust you will remain guests at my court until at least that time,’ he said after a moment.

‘We would be honoured, Majesty. We intend to spare no effort to shed the glorious light of our Saviour upon you.’ As he spoke these words, Father Francisco’s dark eyes gleamed and his whole face seemed possessed by a deep fervour. It would be interesting to debate religion with a man who had once followed the path of Islam but turned from it, Akbar reflected as the two priests were led away, and also to discover what these so-called gospels had to say. Father Francisco had made them sound complex and mysterious. Would they really reveal new truths? And who was this ‘Saviour’? Was he another incarnation, like the father or the son or that spirit they called the ‘holy ghost’? He felt impatient to know.

He was also curious to know what Salim had made of the new arrivals. He ordered an attendant to ask the prince to join him in his private apartments, and half an hour later he was looking down at his young son. ‘I saw you watching the Christian priests. What did you think of them?’

‘They looked strange.’

‘In what way? Their clothes?’

‘Yes, but more than that. . there was something about their faces. . almost as if they were hungry for something.’

‘In a way they are. They hope to make Christians of us.’

‘I heard one of our mullahs calling them foreign infidels and saying that you should never have invited them.’

‘What do you think?’

Salim looked startled. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea to find out as much as possible about other people’s beliefs? After all, how can you show people they are wrong if you don’t know what they think?’

This time Salim said nothing at all, but stared awkwardly at the ground.

‘A strong, confident emperor doesn’t need to fear those who hold different views, does he? Think about it, Salim. Don’t your own studies make you curious to explore beyond the world you know?’

Salim looked towards the door, obviously anxious for this interview to end, and Akbar felt a surge of exasperation. He had expected more of his eldest son. Admittedly, Salim was young, but surely when he’d been that age he’d have had more to say — intelligent questions to ask. ‘You must have some opinion,’ he persisted. ‘After all, why did you come to see the priests? I didn’t see your brothers there, only you.’

‘I wanted to see what Christian priests look like. . I’ve heard all kinds of stories about them, and one of my tutors gave me this letter from a man who had met a priest in Delhi. It describes how the Christians worship a man nailed to a wooden cross.’ Salim reached inside his orange tunic and took out a piece of folded paper. ‘There’s a