As the Persian was ushered out, Akbar motioned to Jauhar to come closer. ‘Write to my governor in Kabul about this appointment and tell him to keep an eye on Ghiyas Beg, just to be sure.’ Then he looked for his son, but was not surprised to find that Salim had slipped away. Ever since the day he had questioned him about the Jesuit visitors, he had noticed how his son was avoiding him. Whenever he made an effort to seek him out — going to watch him at his lessons or practising swordplay, archery or wrestling — instead of relishing the chance to show off his skills Salim seemed awkward and nervous. His obvious unease was making it increasingly difficult for Akbar to know what to do or say. Emperor himself from a young age, he had always taken the love and admiration of those around him for granted. How should he react to his son’s behaviour?
He must learn patience. If he just waited, Salim would surely start coming to him of his own accord, whatever insidious things his mother might have told him, might tell him. . Boys needed their fathers.
‘I am curious. What did this man Ghiyas Beg look like?’ asked Hamida.
‘He was tall and thin and the robe he was wearing was too small for him. His big, bony wrists were sticking out,’ Salim replied.
‘And he is a Persian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why has he come here?’
‘To seek my father’s help.’
‘What did he ask for?’
‘Employment in the service of the Moghuls.’
‘Tell me exactly what he said.’
Hamida listened intently, and when Salim had finished was silent for a while. ‘Life is a strange thing,’ she said at last. ‘So much that happens to us appears random, yet — like your grandfather, my husband Humayun — I have often discerned patterns running through our existence as if at the hand of a divine weaver at the loom. . You know that a seer’s blood runs in my veins. I thought that the power to see into the future had left me long ago, but while you were speaking I suddenly thought that one day this Ghiyas Beg might become important to our dynasty. There are strange parallels between his story and some of what previously befell our own family. . You say that he has come from Persia with his fortunes in the dust after nearly abandoning his newborn child. As you know, a similar desperate plight once forced your grandfather and me to go to Persia to seek the shah’s help. We too were nearly destitute. But far worse than that, your father, then just a baby, had been stolen from us.
‘Picture the scene when we crossed into Persia. . We had barely eaten for weeks and had no idea whether Shah Tahmasp would even let us remain in his kingdom. But when he learned of our arrival he sent ten thousand cavalrymen to escort us to his summer capital. Servants dressed in purple silk embroidered with gold walked ahead of us sprinkling the road with rosewater to keep the dust from rising. At night we slept in brocade tents on satin couches scented with ambergris, and attendants served us over five hundred different dishes as well as delicate sherbets chilled with ice brought down from the mountains and sweetmeats wrapped in gold and silver leaf. After every meal, we were presented with some fresh gift — singing birds with jewelled collars in cages of solid gold, an image of Timur in his summer palace in Samarkand painted on ivory that I still possess. But though we wanted the shah’s assistance, we refused to behave like suppliants. Your grandfather made him a great gift — greater than anything ever presented to him before. It was the Koh-i-Nur diamond, the “Mountain of Light”.’
‘Why did my grandfather give the diamond to the Shah?’
Hamida smiled, a little sadly, or so it seemed to Salim. ‘You must understand how it was. Indeed, it’s a good lesson for you. Think how hard it was for him to throw himself on another ruler’s mercy. By offering the shah the Koh-i-Nur diamond he redressed the balance, showing himself the shah’s equal, even if in desperate straits, and thus retained his pride. What is a gem, however magnificent, compared with the honour of our dynasty?’ Hamida’s eyes were suddenly very bright.
While she had been speaking, Gulbadan had entered. Though the lines running from the corners of her mouth to her jawline gave her a severe look, it vanished when she saw Salim, to be replaced by a warm smile.
Salim smiled back. He liked to visit his grandmother and his great-aunt. With them he felt safe and secure. They didn’t criticise him, and he enjoyed their stories. When they spoke of how his grandfather had won back Hindustan, he could see the pennants fluttering from the steel-tipped lances of the Moghul horsemen as they galloped across the flat, dusty plains and the clouds of white smoke rising from the Moghul cannon. He could smell the acrid fumes and hear the crackle of musket fire and the deep, harsh trumpeting of war elephants.
‘Tell your great-aunt about the Persian who has arrived at court.’
‘Did your father agree to help this Ghiyas Beg?’ Gulbadan asked when Salim had finished.
‘Yes. He gave him a post in Kabul.’
‘Your father is a good judge of character,’ Gulbadan said, ‘but it wasn’t always so. As a young man he could be rash and too easily influenced by those around him. But he has learned to be more careful. Observe him, Salim. Ask him the reasons behind his decisions. . try to learn from him.’
That was easy for her to say, Salim thought. But what he said was, ‘I often go to the audience chamber and watch my father seated on his throne on top of the carved column. But it puzzles me how anyone dares to approach him. He looks so remote — almost godlike. .’
‘It is a ruler’s duty to inspire confidence, to show that he is ready to listen,’ said Hamida. ‘People approach him because they trust him, as you should.’
‘Your grandmother is right,’ said Gulbadan. ‘A ruler must demonstrate to his people that he cares for them. That’s why every day at dawn your father steps out on to the
He actually is my father, Salim thought, so why do I find it so hard to talk to him? Every time he was with Akbar it seemed to him that his father was examining and probing him, critically testing his merits and his knowledge.
‘Salim, what’s the matter? You look sad,’ said Hamida.
‘You tell me to talk to my father but it’s hard. . I don’t know whether he’d welcome it. He always seems so immaculate, so perfect in dress and behaviour, and so busy, surrounded by his courtiers and his commanders. Sometimes he does come to watch me at my studies but when he asks me questions I feel confused. . stupid. . so worried that what I say won’t be good enough that I can’t answer at all. I know I disappoint him.’
‘Is that all?’ Hamida was smiling. ‘Don’t be so foolish. Remember your father is my son. He was not always this imposing presence. He was once a boy like you, grazing his knees and tearing his clothes in rough games and exercises with his companions and — if the truth be told — not half so good at his lessons or curious about the world around him as you are! And I know how proud he is of you. You should feel inferior to no one!’
Salim smiled back but said nothing. How could they understand? How could anybody, when he didn’t understand his feelings himself?
‘I am pleased to see you, Salim. Come with me up to the roof. I was about to pray.’
Salim followed his mother up the winding flight of sandstone stairs. The light from the clay oil lamp in Hirabai’s right hand was just enough for him to see where he was going, though once he turned a corner too sharply and tripped. Stepping out on to the flat roof of her palace he saw that his mother, long dark hair intertwined with white jasmine flowers, was already kneeling before a small shrine. It was a warm, windless evening and glancing up into the heavens Salim saw the pale sliver of the crescent moon.
Hirabai was bending low in prayer. Although she sometimes spoke of her Hindu beliefs, they still seemed strange to him, raised a Muslim believing in one God and unused to idols and images. At last she was finished, and rising she turned to Salim. ‘Look at the moon. We Rajputs are its children by night and the offspring of the sun by day. The moon gives us our limitless endurance and the sun our indomitable courage.’ Hirabai’s dark eyes flickered as she looked at him. Salim could feel the intensity of her love for him and wished she would embrace him, but that was not her way and her arms remained by her sides.
‘Mother, you always talk about the Rajputs, but I’m a Moghul too, aren’t I?’ Salim had come to his mother hoping that perhaps she might help him understand the confusions and uncertainties that seemed to be crowding in around him. And he had come alone, slipping away from the attendants who, he suspected, were under orders to report what they saw and heard to Akbar.
