porcelain the merchants brought carefully wrapped in layers of straw.
‘Brother, you have a visitor. A royal prince, by his dress.’ The old woman’s voice, tender and soft, was quite different from the brusque tone in which she had spoken to Salim. ‘Do you have the strength to talk to him?’
The old man nodded. ‘He is welcome. Tell him to sit near me.’
The woman signalled to Salim to seat himself on the woven jute mat that covered the floor of beaten earth, then went back outside.
‘I wondered whether one day you would come to see me, Salim. You are sitting exactly where your father did when he too visited me.’
‘How did you know who I was? It might have been one of my half-brothers, Daniyal or Murad. .’
‘God has been good to me. Even though the external world is hidden from me, he reveals many things to me in my heart. I knew it could only be you because you are the only one of Akbar’s sons who needs my help at present.’
Suddenly tears were pricking Salim’s eyelids — tears not of sorrow but of relief that here was someone who would listen and understand.
‘Tell me what is troubling you,’ the Sufi said gently.
‘I don’t understand who I am — what the purpose of my life will be. I want my father to be proud of me but I don’t know what he expects of me, what he wants me to be. . I am his eldest son. I should be the next emperor but perhaps that is not what he wants. What if he prefers one of my half-brothers to me? And even if I did become emperor, my mother would hate me for it. She says the Moghuls are barbarians who do not belong here. She. .’
Shaikh Salim Chishti leaned forward from his shroud of blankets and took Salim’s face between his dry old hands. ‘No need for words. I understand what you are feeling — your doubts and fears. You look for love yet fear that by loving one parent you betray the other. . You are envious of your half-brothers and fear they may eclipse you in your father’s eyes. . that is why you no longer seek them out. You wonder whether you were born to rule. . I tell you this, Prince Salim: the path of the Moghuls has been hard and bloody but they have achieved greatness and there is more to come. You will be a part of that greatness — you will be emperor. .’
The Sufi paused and with his fingertips gently probed the contours of Salim’s face as if trying to find by his touch what his eyes could no longer tell him. ‘You have your father’s determination and strength but not yet his experience and confidence. Observe him, watch how he governs. That is the way to prepare yourself and to win his approval. But just as I once warned him, so I must warn you. Watch those around you. Be careful whom you confide in and take nothing on trust, even from those bound to you by blood — your half-brothers or even the sons you will have. I do not mean that you will always be surrounded by traitors, but you must be aware that treachery is quick to breed. Ambition is double-edged. It drives men to achieve great things but can also poison their souls — yours as much as any other man’s. Be on your guard both against those around you and against your own passions and weaknesses. If you do, then you will achieve the things you yearn for.’ The Sufi released him and leaned back again.
Salim closed his eyes as a scene began to take shape in his imagination: himself seated on a glittering throne, his nobles and commanders making obeisance before him. That was what he wanted — to be the next Moghul emperor. Whatever doubts his mother had put into his head vanished at the glorious vision before him. He was above all else a Moghul and he would be worthy of his inheritance. He must push aside the anxieties and uncertainties that had been tormenting him and, though still so young, learn to be a man. The Sufi was right. The way to win his father’s love and respect was by showing himself worthy to rule. .
A gentle sigh from the Sufi broke into Salim’s thoughts. ‘I am weary. You must go now, but I trust I have brought you comfort and hope.’
Salim tried to find the words to thank him but emotion seemed to be choking him. ‘You are truly great,’ he managed at last. ‘I understand why my father holds you in such honour.’
‘I am only a simple priest trying to divine the ways of God and of man. I am fortunate to lead a quiet, peaceful existence. That is not your fate. You will be a great ruler, but I do not envy you your life or your glory.’
Chapter 16
Salim felt content as he approached the Agra gate of Fatehpur Sikri. It had been a good morning’s hawking and his birds had performed well, swooping down through the pale early morning light on doves and rats alike. Even better, in a few weeks’ time he was to accompany his father on a long hunting trip. Akbar’s hunting leopards, with their jewelled collars and velvet blindfolds, would soon be being readied to go with them in their brocade-covered wicker cages, and hundreds of beaters would be making their preparations too.
Salim was pleased that his father had invited him, in preference to either of his half-brothers. Over the eight months since his nighttime visit to Shaikh Salim Chishti he had done as the Sufi suggested, observing his father’s daily rituals whenever he could, from his dawn appearance to his people to his daily audiences when, surrounded by courtiers and protected by his heavily armed guards, he received petitions and dispensed justice. The Sufi’s words had given him confidence that whatever else happened, one day these would be his tasks. He had begun worrying less about what his father thought of him and concentrating more on what it meant to be a ruler of men. As the Sufi had predicted, this seemed to have gained him a little more of his father’s approval.
If only Abul Fazl wasn’t always there, scribbling in those ledgers of his and whispering in Akbar’s ear. But his influence with his father remained as strong as ever. Whenever there was a problem, Abul Fazl, as he himself might put it in his ornate style, dodged between the raindrops of his father’s criticism, unlike many others who failed to meet Akbar’s exacting standards. It was Abul Fazl who often prompted his father to request that Salim leave meetings, arguing that the subject matter meant they should be restricted to those most closely involved. Salim also suspected that Abul Fazl was behind Akbar’s stopping him from attending any meetings of his military council, much to his dismay.
‘Protect His Highness, the prince! Seize those men.’ The sudden shouts of the commander of Salim’s bodyguard jolted him from his thoughts. Almost simultaneously a man in a scruffy dark brown robe darted straight across the path of Salim’s horse, which skittered sideways in alarm. Salim pulled hard on the reins to steady it while struggling to unsheathe his sword. Just behind him he heard the neighing of his
The first man, clearly almost out of breath and with the second gaining fast on him, vanished down a narrow, rubbish-filled alley between two rows of mud-brick houses. Four of Salim’s bodyguards had already jumped from their saddles and were racing after the two men — the alleyway was too narrow for horses. Minutes later Salim heard more shouting and yelling. Soon after, the two malefactors emerged, driven from the alley by the tips of the guards’ swords. The man brandishing the weapons had been disarmed but he was glaring furiously around him. The other had a bleeding cut above his left eye. The guards had clearly not been quick enough to prevent a clash between the two. Halting them a few yards in front of Salim, a guard struck them behind the knees with the flat of his sword, sending both sprawling face down to the ground. Then two more guards stood over them, feet resting in the smalls of their backs in case either should think of trying to get up.
Now that he could see them properly, Salim realised that the one in the dark robe was a Jesuit priest. The cord round his thin waist was frayed and the feet Salim could see protruding from beneath the hem of his garment were clad in the kind of thick-soled brown sandals that he had often seen the Jesuit visitors to his father’s court wearing. But the other man was a puzzle. Salim stared down at the stocky, broad-shouldered figure. He was clearly also a foreigner, and among the more bizarre Salim had ever seen. His long, curly hair was a bright orange — somewhere between saffron and gold. He was wearing a short, tight-fighting leather jacket beneath which his backside was encased in billowing striped trousers that ended mid-thigh and were secured by maroon ribbons. From this curious clothing protruded long, skinny legs clad in fine-woven yellow wool stockings. On one of his feet he
