it was right that his eldest grandson should help win it back.’
‘And?’
‘He was so full of his victory in Sind I thought he was going to agree but then he said he wished to consult his war council. It was Abul Fazl who next day brought me my father’s decision — that I lacked the experience for such a distant campaign. My father’s message ended with the usual words — “don’t be impatient”. But I know whose message it really was.’
‘You don’t know that. Maybe your father was concerned for your safety.’
‘Or maybe Abul Fazl didn’t want me to share in the glory. . Nearly every day post riders have been bringing reports of the successful advance of our troops, of how they have already subdued the Baluchi tribes infesting the mountain passes leading to Kandahar and are advancing on the city itself. Last night came a despatch from Abdul Rahman, my father’s
‘That’s wonderful news. If it’s true, it means your father has extended the empire’s northern frontiers yet again. . he now rules from Kandahar down to the Deccan in the south, from Bengal in the east to Sind in the west. . Our forces are invincible. Who can challenge the Moghuls now?’ But the enthusiasm on Suleiman Beg’s face died as he took in Salim’s bleak expression.
‘It is good news, of course it is. My father is a great man — I know it and everybody else keeps telling me it. He has raised our dynasty to heights known to no other. But it would have been even better if I could have had a share in the action instead of sitting around always hoping for a chance to prove myself that never comes. .’ So saying, Salim yanked his reins so hard his horse whinnied in protest. Then, wheeling his mount in the shallow water, he kicked sharply with his heels and without waiting for Suleiman Beg set off back towards the Lahore fort where his father was no doubt already beginning his meticulous planning of the grandiose celebrations he would hold to mark the capture of Kandahar. How could a man like Akbar, who from youth had known only success and glory, possibly understand the yawning emptiness, the futility of his own existence?
It was May. In just a few days the monsoon would begin and the heat was intense as musicians playing long brass pipes and beating drums suspended on thongs round their necks led the procession from the
Standing with some of Akbar’s most senior courtiers and commanders to the left-hand side of the carved sandstone entrance to the imperial school, Salim thought how serious his two elder sons looked, how stiffly they sat in their saddles. They weren’t used to such ceremonials. Much as their grandfather loved them, he had never put on such a show to mark the start of their formal education which, in line with Moghul tradition for the rearing of royal princes, began at the age of four years, four months and four days — Khurram’s exact age today. Beyond Khusrau and Parvez, Salim could see the baby elephant on which Khurram was riding and which Akbar himself was leading with a golden chain attached to the animal’s jewelled headplate. Immediately behind came the captain of Akbar’s own bodyguard, carrying the yak’s tail standard that since early times had been a symbol of Moghul rule.
Khurram himself was in an open howdah of beaten silver set with turquoises — a stone that Timur himself had loved to wear. A parasol of green silk embroidered with pearls and held aloft by the attendant riding behind him in the howdah protected him from the hot sunlight shafting down from a completely clear blue sky. Salim felt sweat running between his shoulder blades, though he too was protected by a silk canopy. But as the procession drew nearer, Salim realised that despite the heat his youngest son was relishing the occasion. Unlike his elder brothers he didn’t seem to find his elaborate clothes — a gold brocade coat and green pantaloons — uncomfortable. Gems sparkled round his neck and on his fingers and in the tiny ceremonial dagger tucked into his sash. Though he looked like a little bejewelled doll he was clearly enjoying himself, smiling and looking anything but nervous, waving to the straining, cheering crowds being held back by soldiers.
A large red and blue Persian carpet had been spread out in front of the school steps. Some twenty paces away from them, the musicians fell silent and the procession divided to one side or the other leaving Akbar and Khurram on his baby elephant alone in front of the school. Akbar advanced to the very centre of the carpet, and after a quick glance at his grandson to assure himself that the boy was seated securely, addressed Salim and the assembled members of his court.
‘I have invited you here to witness an important event. My beloved grandson Prince Khurram will today begin his education. I have assembled the best scholars from within my empire and beyond. They will instruct him in every subject from literature and mathematics to astronomy and the history of his forebears, and will guide him on the journey from boyhood to manhood.’
Yes, thought Salim, and they included Abul Fazl’s father Shaikh Mubarak, who was to instruct Khurram about religion. Abul Fazl himself was standing just a few paces away, his usual leather-bound ledger beneath his right arm, doubtless ready to compose some florid verses about the occasion. As if aware of Salim’s scrutiny, the chronicler returned his stare, then looked away again. Salim returned his attention to his father.
‘The prince has already shown signs of exceptional ability,’ Akbar was saying. ‘My astrologers predict that he will achieve great things. Come, Khurram, it is time.’
He released the catches fastening the side of the howdah and lifted Khurram down. Then, taking the child by the hand, he walked slowly towards the high, arched entrance. As they passed within a few feet of Salim, Khurram gave him a quick smile but Akbar continued to look straight ahead. Another few moments and they had vanished inside. Salim tried to compose his thoughts. A father should be able to do things for his sons. He, not Akbar, should have taken Khurram to school on his first day, just as he had taken Khusrau and Parvez. He not Akbar should have chosen his son’s tutors. But Akbar had robbed him of all that. .
The familiar heaviness that always came when he thought about Khurram settled around his heart. He loved him but he didn’t know him and perhaps never would. When the ties between parent and child were broken so early perhaps they could never be mended. . Hamida had once told him that his great-grandfather Babur had been moved by his love for one wife to give her the child of another. Akbar had deprived him and Jodh Bai of their son as surely as Babur had robbed that mother of her child. For a moment he stared at the archway into the school, tempted to enter, but what would be the point? Akbar, he was pretty sure, didn’t want him there. Khurram didn’t need him.
‘Highness, your other sons and the rest of the procession are about to return to the palace. Only your father’s bodyguards are remaining here. Shall we go back?’ Suleiman Beg’s voice forced Salim back to the present. Like himself, his friend was sweating. The heat was becoming unbearable. Salim nodded. It would be good to return to the cool and shade of the palace and Jodh Bai would be eager to hear how well Khurram had conducted himself.
‘Your father certainly knows how to put on a spectacle. The crowds were almost hysterical,’ Suleiman Beg went on as, with Salim’s own bodyguard behind them, and fanned by attendants wielding giant peacock-feather fans, they slowly retraced their steps.
‘He likes to show the people his wealth and splendour. He thinks it makes them proud to be citizens of the Moghul empire — and proud to be his subjects.’
‘He’s right. Didn’t you hear their shouts of “Allah Akbar”? They love him.’
‘Yes.’ Salim’s head was beginning to ache and the sun’s glare — so relentlessly bright — was hurting his eyes. Everyone loved Akbar. He began to walk more quickly, suddenly desperate to be back in his own apartments and alone with his thoughts.
His father was sensible to have waited for the cool weather to return before making the journey south from Lahore to inspect the newly reconstructed fort at Agra, Salim reflected as, six months later, the imperial party rode on elephant-back up the steep, twisting ramp with its right-angled turns designed to slow down and frustrate attackers and through the fort’s towering gateway, the great gates studded with spikes to wound any elephant which tried to batter them down. Akbar was on the leading elephant, Khurram as usual by his side.
‘Majesty, you have surpassed yourself,’ said Abul Fazl when they descended from their howdahs a few minutes later, gazing up at the seventy-foot-high sandstone battlements snaking a mile and a half around the reconstructed fort.
