Ruler of the World

thicker and darker, and orange flames flickered.

‘Come on!’ Akbar shouted, kicking his stallion hard. In a matter of moments they burst through the bushes into a clearing where a tall stack of brushwood was already well alight around the edges. On top of the pyre and not itself yet burning was a body wrapped in white muslin. Two men were leaning forward with a jar of what looked like oil or ghee which they were throwing over the corpse, the viscous yellow liquid arcing through the air and hissing as drops fell into the flames. At that moment the corpse’s clothes caught light and Salim caught the sweet stench of flesh starting to burn. Galloping to within ten feet of the pyre, Akbar wheeled his horse to a standstill. The crowd had been so intent on what was happening that they were slow to react.

‘Surround the pyre,’ Akbar shouted to his guards. Riding right up to the crowd, he demanded, ‘Who is your leader?’ He spoke in Hindi, the local language, in which he was as fluent as he was in Persian, the language of the court.

‘I am,’ replied one of the men who had been pouring the oil. ‘We are cremating the body of my father, who was headman of this village. I am his eldest son, Sanjeev.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘No, Excellency.’ Sanjeev shook his head. Salim saw him slowly taking in the rich trappings of Akbar’s horse, the gems flashing on his fingers and round his neck, the well-armed guards in their green tunics. Puzzlement then alarm spread over his face, which was badly disfigured by smallpox scars.

‘I am your emperor. I was told a widow-burning is to take place here. Is that true?’

Sanjeev once more shook his head, but Salim saw his eyes flick across to a thatched windowless shack. Akbar saw it too and at once gestured to one of his guards to check inside. Moments later the man reappeared carrying a young woman in a white sari. Her body was limp, and as the guard came nearer Salim saw that her eyes were open but unfocused.

‘Lay her on the ground and one of you villagers fetch water,’ Akbar commanded. A boy ran up with a small clay cup. Akbar dismounted, took it, and kneeling by the woman’s side held it to her lips. The first drops ran down her chin but then she stirred and opening her mouth began to swallow. Coming closer, Salim saw the huge dark circles of her dilated pupils.

‘Who is this woman? Speak or I swear I will strike off your head here and now,’ Akbar said.

Sanjeev twisted his hands. ‘This is my father’s widow Shakuntala — he married her a year after the death of my own mother and just three months before he fell ill.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Fifteen, Majesty.’

‘You’ve drugged her, haven’t you?’

‘I gave her opium pellets to swallow. You don’t understand, Majesty. You are not a Hindu. It is a matter of family honour for a widow to follow her husband into the all-consuming heat of the flames. . I drugged her to ease the pain.’

‘You drugged her so she wouldn’t resist when you put her on to the funeral pyre.’

The young woman had sat up and was looking around, confused. Behind her the flames of the pyre were now leaping higher, crackling and shooting showers of sparks into the air. The smell of burning human flesh, mingling with the aroma of the scented oils and butter with which the brushwood had been drenched, was growing ever more pungent. Suddenly aware of where she was and what was happening, Shakuntala got shakily to her feet and turned towards the pyre. At its heart the body of her dead husband was now burning like a torch. As she watched, the corpse’s head burst open with a crack, followed by a frying sound as the brains were immediately incinerated.

Sanjeev glared at her, for the moment oblivious of Akbar and his entourage or of the villagers silently watching. ‘It is your duty to perish in the flames consuming your husband’s body. My mother would have done so had she outlived him and she would have been proud of it. You are bringing shame on my family’s good name.’

‘No. You are the one committing a shameful act. I have forbidden sati throughout my empire. Whether the widow is willing or unwilling, I will not tolerate such barbarous practices.’ Akbar turned to the woman. ‘You cannot stay here. You would not be safe. I am Akbar, your emperor. I offer you the chance to return with me and my men to my court where employment will be found for you as an attendant in the haram. Do you accept?’

‘Yes, Majesty,’ the woman replied. Until that moment she hadn’t realised who Akbar was and Salim noticed she was scarcely able to look his father in the eye.

‘As for you,’ Akbar addressed the still defiant-looking Sanjeev, ‘if you thought your religion required it, would you be willing to submit to the agony of being burned alive? I wonder. Guards, take hold of him and bring him over to the pyre.’

Sanjeev’s pockmarked face was suddenly waxy with sweat and he started to breathe heavily. ‘Majesty, please. .’ he begged as two soldiers grabbed him beneath the armpits and dragged him towards the fire. He was punily built and the guards could toss him into the flames as easily as a bale of straw, Salim thought.

Akbar strode across to the man. ‘Hold him by the shoulders,’ he ordered. ‘Let us see how well he can bear the pain he was so ready to inflict on others.’

Then, gripping the man’s right arm just above the elbow, Akbar thrust his hand into the flames. Sanjeev’s screams split the air and he fought to break free but Akbar steeled himself to hold his hand in the brightly burning fire for a little longer. Sanjeev’s crescendoing cries were now more animal than human. Even the young woman was no longer able to watch.

Suddenly Sanjeev passed out and apart from the crackling flames there was silence. Supporting the limp body, Akbar pulled the man’s badly burned hand from the pyre and held it up for a few moments so all could see before letting him fall to the ground. Then he turned to address the villagers, who in the shock of what they had just witnessed had drawn even closer together like a knot of sheep that suspects the wolf is close.

‘You have just witnessed my justice. I expect my laws to be obeyed and transgressors always to be severely punished. You are all as guilty as this man here.’ He pointed to Sanjeev, who was now beginning to come round and moaning in anguish. ‘You knew what was intended and did nothing to stop it. I will not make you feel the fire as he did, but I will give you ten minutes to remove your livestock and possessions. Then my men will turn your village into a pyre. Over the next weeks as you labour to rebuild your houses you will have time to contemplate the consequences of defying your emperor.’

Within minutes the settlement was ablaze. Shakuntala was mounted behind one of the guards, a scarf thrown over her head to preserve her modesty, as they rode back down the hill. Salim noticed that she did not once look back at the place which had been her home. Glancing at his father, he realised he had never felt so proud of him or so glad to be his son and a Moghul.

‘He was magnificent. I had never seen him dispense justice with such power and authority. It was different from watching him at court where everything is so stiff and formal and seems to take for ever.’ Ever since his father’s rescue of the young Hindu widow, Salim had felt buoyed by memories of it, especially of how his father had known instinctively what to say and do. That was real power.

‘He was interfering with the ancient ways of our land,’ Hirabai said coldly.

‘But he upholds the rights of Hindus. Only a few days ago I overheard some members of the ulama criticising his tolerance. One mullah said he had heard that the emperor was going to pray at the Hindus’ sacred place at Allahabad where the Jumna and the Ganges meet. Another was complaining that the emperor seemed prepared to venerate anything — fire, water, stones and trees. . even the sacred cows he allows to wander freely through his towns and villages, even their very dung. .’

‘Your father only upholds what he approves of. He has no right to intervene in sati. It does not concern him.’

‘But it does. He has forbidden it. Those villagers were defying him.’

‘They were obeying a higher authority — their religion. That was not disobedience but duty.’ Hirabai’s words reminded Salim of what Sanjeev had said in justification of his actions, and of what the Jesuits sometimes said in justification of acts by their church that also seemed barbarous. He said nothing as Hirabai continued, ‘My people — your people — the Rajputs have practised sati almost since time began. Many times when I was a girl I witnessed Rajput noblewomen give away their jewels and other worldly possessions and join their husbands joyfully on the funeral pyres, cradling their dead husbands’ heads in their laps as the flames leapt