Ruler of the World

wait and watch and learn and all would come right. And it was good that his father had invited him on the hunt. Hearing a sudden shouting from up ahead, Salim reached over his shoulder to check that his quiver and bow were in place and then ran his hand over the smooth steel barrel of his musket, a beautiful weapon inlaid with triangles of mother-of-pearl. Yes, he was ready.

But then he realised that the shouts were more than a cry for the hunt to begin and were growing louder. Among them he could make out the words, ‘His Majesty is ill! Fetch the hakims!’ There was a sudden thudding of hooves and two of Akbar’s mounted bodyguard burst through the foliage ahead of him and galloped off towards the back of the line where the court hakims who always accompanied the hunt were travelling in their bullock cart.

‘What is it? What’s happened to my father?’ Salim shouted but in the confusion no one was attending to him. Heart pounding, he climbed over the edge of his howdah and lowered himself on two gilded straps until he was close enough to the ground to jump lightly down. Dodging more riders and a group of beaters, metal gongs now silent in their hands, Salim ran forward. His father’s elephant Lakna was on its knees and beside the great grey shape Salim saw a group of men clustered around a supine figure. Forcing his way through, Salim saw Akbar lying on his back, body arching as spasms rocked it. As Salim stared, he found himself repeating over and over, ‘Please God, not yet.’ His ambitions and his fears for the future no longer seemed to matter.

Akbar was thrashing more wildly, and red blood mingling with a dribble of spittle oozing from his mouth showed that he had bitten his tongue. Salim watched helplessly. In his mind’s eye he already saw himself standing beside Murad and Daniyal at their father’s funeral. He heard Hamida’s and Gulbadan’s wails of grief and saw the smile curving his mother’s lips at the knowledge that the man she regarded as the enemy of her people was dead.

Abul Fazl was loosening the turquoise clasps of his father’s tunic, fingers trembling. ‘Stand back, all of you, give His Majesty some air. .’ he was saying. At that moment one of the bodyguards returned, a white-robed, white- turbaned hakim mounted behind him. The crowd parted to let the doctor through. He was a young, sharp-featured man whose intelligent brown eyes seemed to take in the situation at once.

Dropping to his knees beside Akbar he seized his arms and held them steady. ‘You!’ he shouted without ceremony to Abul Fazl. ‘Hold His Majesty’s legs to help calm him. And you there,’ he nodded at another courtier, ‘fold a clean piece of linen — handkerchief, face cloth, whatever comes to hand — and ram it hard between His Majesty’s jaws or he may bite through his tongue.’

‘Hakim, what can I do for my father?’ Salim asked.

The doctor glanced round. ‘Nothing,’ he said tersely and turned back to his patient. Salim hesitated a moment, then getting to his feet pushed his way through the onlookers. If he couldn’t help he would rather not watch.

The sunlight that had seemed so full of promise for a good day’s sport barely half an hour ago as it shafted through the canopy of leaves was now lighting the forest floor with a harsh, metallic brightness. Salim wandered away through a patch of low, scrubby bushes, neither noticing nor caring where his feet were taking him. Reaching a clearing he paused, and more by instinct than anything else suddenly became aware of a pair of bright eyes watching him through some branches. It was a young deer, the velvet mantling on its antlers the very palest brown. Slowly Salim reached behind him for his bow but then stopped. What was the point? There was enough death in the world.

Almost at once the deer bounded away. Salim listened to the sounds of the frightened animal crashing through the scrub and then turned to retrace his own steps. Whatever was happening to his father, he must face up to it and any implications it had for him. He couldn’t hide in the forest like a dumb beast and anyway in a few moments he would be missed — imperial princes couldn’t wander off on their own unnoticed. But he dreaded what he would see as he emerged once more into the open. The hakim was standing up now with a crowd gathered around him, listening to what he had to say. But where was Akbar? Salim broke into a run.

As he drew closer, staring around him in panic, he saw his father sitting propped against a tree trunk, Abul Fazl holding a flask of water to his lips. His bodyguards had formed a protective circle around them but they parted as Salim ran up. ‘Father. .’ He was half-sobbing with relief to see Akbar, a little paler than usual and long dark hair dishevelled, but otherwise much as usual. The bright eyes that he now turned on his son had lost none of their disconcerting penetration.

‘There is no need for concern. I have had a vision — a direct communication with God. I felt my whole body shaking with joy, and God revealed to me what I must do. We are abandoning the hunt and returning at once to Fatehpur Sikri, where I have an announcement to make to my people. Go now, and let me rest.’

Salim turned away, feeling that his father had somehow rebuffed him. If his father had received some divine revelation why wouldn’t he share it with him? Did he think he was not to be trusted? Glancing round, he saw the man whom just a little while ago he had thought close to death whispering with Abul Fazl and realised that all the anxiety he had felt had turned to nothing more noble than resentment. He was angry with himself, but angrier still with Akbar.

‘I have summoned you here to the great mosque in Fatehpur Sikri to hear an important pronouncement.’

Dressed in cloth of gold and with three nodding white egrets feathers secured to his turban by a ruby clasp, Akbar gazed around at the assembled mullahs, courtiers and commanders. Salim, standing amongst them, glanced up at the small women’s gallery concealed from public view by a carved jali where he knew that Hamida and Gulbadan were watching and listening. Did they have any idea what Akbar was going to say? He didn’t. For the past three days since Akbar had returned from his hunting expedition the court had been awash with rumours. Akbar had shut himself away in his private quarters, seeing only Abul Fazl and, on two occasions, Shaikh Mubarak. Some even claimed that Akbar was about to declare himself a Christian.

‘Several days ago, in his infinite goodness God spoke to me and revealed his heart. He said that he had chosen me because, like other prophets before me, I cannot read and my mind therefore remains open to hearing his voice in all its strength and purity. He told me that a true ruler must not leave the conduct of divine worship to others but take this great responsibility upon their own shoulders. Today is Friday, our day of prayer. In past times I would have asked one of our learned mullahs to mount the pulpit to lead us in our worship and to recite the khutba. But because of what God is asking of me, I must fulfil that task in front of you all.’

To gasps of surprise Akbar turned and climbed the steep carved rosewood stairs leading up to the marble pulpit. Then in his deep, resonating voice he began to recite, his voice building to a climax as the final words rang out, ‘Blessed be His Majesty! Allah Akbar!’

Salim’s head jerked back with surprise. Allah Akbar meant ‘God is great,’ but his father’s words could also mean ‘Akbar is God’. Was his father claiming some sort of divinity? All around him he heard a surprised buzz of conversation. But looking up again he saw his father coolly observing the effect of his ambiguous cry. He raised his hands for silence, which fell instantly. ‘I have commanded my most trusted spiritual adviser Shaikh Mubarak to draw up a document that I will require every mullah in my empire to sign, which states that in any question of religious interpretation I — not they — am the final arbiter.’

Salim saw Shaikh Ahmad and the other members of the ulama exchange shocked glances as they took in the full import of their emperor’s words — that he stood higher in the knowledge of God than any mullah. Just like that King of England, Akbar was claiming for himself not only the role of head of state but of the head of religion within his empire. Akbar was smiling a little and Salim felt a new awe for the father whom with every passing day he felt little closer to understanding.

Chapter 17

Flaming Torches

‘Majesty, the Jesuit father Antonio Monserrate requests an urgent audience with you.’

Akbar looked up from the design of a new pavilion drawn by Tuhin Das that he had been studying with Abul