Ruler of the World

Zubaida.

She was in a bad state, worse than he had hoped. A large jagged cut on her swollen temple was bleeding profusely and one of the shattered bones of her left forearm was protruding bloodily through her age-mottled skin. Blood was seeping from the back of the other woman’s head and staining her hennaed hair. She was unconscious, if not dead. ‘You’ll both soon be out of here and safe in the hands of the hakims,’ Salim said with a little more confidence than he felt. He manoeuvred slowly forward to a position by the howdah from where he knew those on the road above could see him. Then he waved both his arms above his head in the agreed signal to throw further ropes down. Soon, two ropes snaked through the air towards the ledge. Salim grabbed one but the other fell too far away. He had to signal twice more before another rope finally descended within his reach.

He tied the first rope round Zubaida, who winced only when he accidentally caught her damaged arm. ‘Be brave.’ Salim smiled encouragingly at her. ‘When I give the signal those on the road will pull you up on the rope. Use your feet to push yourself away from the rocks.’

‘Yes, Highness, I understand.’

‘When you reach the top, tell them to pull on both my rope and the remaining one at the same time. I will go up with your companion.’

Zubaida nodded and Salim moved again to the shattered howdah to signal for his old nursemaid to be hauled back up. Soon, to Salim’s great relief, she was ascending the rock face, obediently pushing with her bare feet just as he had instructed.

As she disappeared from his view, Salim went over to the second woman, who somewhat to his surprise was still breathing. As he tied the rope around her, he saw her eyelids flicker. Then he quickly resecured his own rope about himself and lifted the woman in his arms. A few moments later he felt the ropes tauten. Slowly they began to be hoisted up, Salim using his feet to keep them clear of the rocks when he could. He couldn’t prevent himself being swung heavily against one overhang, grazing his back through his thin tunic, but he was soon at the top, safe if bruised and blood- and mud-stained. As the hakims took the two elderly women away on makeshift stretchers, the first person Salim saw striding towards him was his father, the crowds parting before him. He had a broad smile on his face as he extended his arms to embrace his son.

‘Salim, I am proud of you. Your strength is now the equal of mine.’

To his son, every word was as precious as gold.

A soft wind was blowing through the beds of roses and some of their red petals were falling to the ground as three months later Akbar and Salim walked side by side through the Nasim Bagh near the Kashmiri capital of Srinagar. The gardens had been laid out on Akbar’s orders only twelve months previously on the west bank of the Dal lake, whose blue waters lapped the edge of the lowest of the gardens’ series of descending terraces. It must, thought Salim, be one of the most beautiful places in the world.

As if sensing what his son was thinking, Akbar said, ‘The Persians at the court boast that their homeland has the most beautiful gardens, the closest on earth to the charbaghs, the gardens of Paradise, which the Koran describes as the reward of the faithful in heaven. However, for me, the whole of Kashmir is one great garden of Paradise with its meadows carpeted in spring by the mauve flowers of the saffron crocus, its babbling brooks, its tumbling waterfalls and these wonderful hills and lake.’

Salim thought, not for the first time, that he had never seen his father as relaxed as when he was in Kashmir. Although Akbar still dealt daily with the despatches brought by post messengers from Hindustan and often inspected the construction of the fast-rising Hari Parvat fort in Srinagar, he still seemed to have more time to talk to members of his family. Perhaps, thought Salim, that was because almost immediately after they had arrived in Srinagar his father had despatched Abul Fazl back to Lahore to deal with some reported problems with the running of the imperial administration.

‘I was just thinking the same, Father. It is good to be among breezes and green meadows instead of the heat and rain of the monsoon in Hindustan. It makes me feel more alive.’ Salim paused, pleased to share his father’s mood, and then went on, ‘While we’ve been here I’ve become more and more interested in nature. I’ve had some of the artists draw accurate pictures of crocuses and other flowers much larger than life so that I can see all the intricate details of their make-up. I have even had scholars dissect the wings of birds to see if they can understand how they fly.’

‘Your grandmother has told me of your researches. I would like to see the drawings myself. Kashmir has been good for all of us. It has shown me not only how courageous you are but how strong your mind is.’

Salim said nothing for a while as the two continued to walk down through the terraces of the Nasim Bagh towards the glinting waters of the Dal lake. Then, emboldened by these moments of intimacy, he asked, ‘When we return to Lahore, may I attend your council meetings, whether civil or military, more often so that I can better understand how our empire works?’

‘I will certainly think about it. I shall consult Abul Fazl as to when it might be most helpful for you to do so.’

Abul Fazl, always Abul Fazl, thought Salim. He said nothing, but it was as if a shadow had passed over the warm late summer sun.

Chapter 21

‘A Riband in the Cap of Royalty’

‘This is good news. We should celebrate,’ said Suleiman Beg. ‘Perhaps it will be a third son for you in addition to Khusrau and Parvez.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What’s the matter? You look as if your father had appointed you inspector of the Lahore latrines, rather than a man who’s just learned that his favourite wife is pregnant.’

Suleiman Beg could always lighten his mood, Salim thought. ‘You’re right, and I am pleased. So is Jodh Bai. It was hard for her to see me with two sons already, neither of them hers.’

‘And I’m right, aren’t I? She is your favourite.’

‘I suppose so. At least she can always make me laugh. Like you, she knows my moods and can tease me out of them. And unlike Man Bai or some of my other wives she never complains that I don’t spend enough time with her.’

‘What is it then? Why the reluctance to rejoice?’

Salim’s jaw tightened as he tried to answer that question as much for himself as his milk-brother. ‘It’s good to be the father of sons, of course it is. But what will I have to offer them? The same purposeless life that I lead? While we were with my father in Kashmir I thought he had changed towards me. He seemed to want my opinions, but since we’ve returned to Lahore he ignores me again. It’s all Abul Fazl. He sits at my father’s right ear dripping unctuous words and I’m surer than ever he is to blame. He wants to exclude me and my half-brothers because he sees us as rivals for influence with my father.’

Suleiman Beg shrugged. ‘Perhaps your father thinks you’re still too young to take a hand in government.’

‘I’m a grown man. I’m a father. I’ve proved my courage in battle. I’ve been patient and dutiful. What more does he want? Sometimes I think he excludes me from important debates on purpose.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘Because he doesn’t know whether he wants me to succeed him. He’s reluctant to give me any real power or responsibility because he fears that will be a sign to me — and to others — that I am his chosen heir.’

‘You don’t know that. It might just be that he’s wary of giving up any power to anyone. How old is he?’

‘He’ll be forty-nine in October.’

‘There you are then. Though he looks so vigorous and strong he’s not a young man any more. In his heart he’ll know that and he probably resents you or anyone who might one day succeed him — he’s like the old tiger driven from his haunts by a younger male.’

‘How come you think you’re so knowledgeable?’

Suleiman Beg shrugged, then grinned, showing very white teeth. ‘My father’s almost exactly the same age