Ruler of the World

‘Take it.’

He scarcely noticed as the khawajasara hastened from the room. Anarkali was wearing a plain black robe that was slightly too long for her so that the hem was coated with dust. The khawajasara had done well. Who would have guessed that such drab garments concealed his father’s favourite concubine, the cherished companion of his most intimate moments?

‘You sent for me, Highness?’ Anarkali spoke in Persian that was oddly cadenced, but her voice was low and soft.

‘Let me see your hair.’

Anarkali slowly pulled off her veil and let it float to the floor. Her golden hair was concealed beneath a tight- fitting black cap. Her eyes, the colour of amethysts in the faint candlelight and fringed by lashes darkened with kohl, looked straight into his with frank curiosity as she raised her arms to take off the cap and her hair, pale gold like corn in the moonlight, tumbled around her. Her smile told Salim, just as it had when she had been dancing, that she understood her power over men. Her confidence was deeply arousing.

‘Since I saw you dance I’ve thought of nothing but you. I desire you.’

‘If your father finds out he will be very angry with me.’

‘I will tell him you were blameless — that it was all my doing. But you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. .’

‘Your ardour flatters me. What woman in my situation would refuse a prince?’

Without waiting for Salim to say anything else Anarkali quickly undid the fastenings at the shoulder and waist of her ugly robe, and wriggled from it like a beautiful snake sloughing off its skin. Her flesh had a soft pearl-like sheen and her full, blue-veined breasts, tipped with pink, swayed a little as she came towards him. She took his hands and placed them on her silky, slender waist. Then, pressing herself yet closer so he could feel the hard tips of her nipples through his silk tunic, she ran his hands down over the rich swell of her hips and buttocks. Her skin felt just as he had imagined, warm and yielding. An uncontrollable shudder of virility ran through him and stepping back from her he began pulling off his own clothes, tearing the delicate fabric of his tunic in his haste.

‘You have a warrior’s body like your father, and are as quickly aroused. .’

Salim barely heard her. He could think of nothing except burying himself in that glorious body. Taking Anarkali’s hand he pulled her down on to a divan, kicking brocade cushions out of the way. Winding his hands in her long shining mass of hair, he kissed her mouth, then the velvet hollow between her breasts. He could scarcely believe the perfection of her from her delicate collarbones to the lush flesh of her rounded thighs. Sensing his urgency, she was already spreading her legs and arching her back. Her body beneath his felt slippery with sweat. ‘Highness,’ she was whispering, ‘now. . I am ready. .’ As Salim entered her and began to thrust, triumph and exultation surged through him — but it was not only the pleasure of taking a beautiful woman. It was taking a woman who belonged to his father.

Salim couldn’t sleep. The night seemed intolerably close and hot and the punkah swinging slowly back and forth over his bed barely disturbed the heavy air. Yet he knew what was really keeping him from sleep was his longing for Anarkali. The khawajasara had brought the Venetian to him on two subsequent nights before his father’s return to Lahore but since then he had not seen her.

Why did she fascinate him so much? It was a hard question to answer, but he knew it was more than her beauty, more than the fact that she was his father’s concubine, though both added spice. There was a spirit, a self-reliance about her, perhaps the result of her strange, turbulent life. She had told him how, when she was a young girl, pirates had attacked the ship on which she was sailing off the coast of north Africa with her merchant father, whose throat they had slit. They had taken her captive and she had been sold in the slave markets of Istanbul to a Turkish brothel owner who had had her instructed in the arts of love-making. Carefully preserving her virginity, he had sold her at the age of fifteen for a great price to a nobleman who had presented her to the Sultan. That had been four years ago.

When Salim asked whether she still thought of her homeland, Anarkali had shrugged. ‘It seems long ago. I cry when I think of my poor father’s fate but had we stayed in Venice who knows what my life would have been — probably a loveless marriage to some rich old man of my father’s choosing. He already had such a plan. Now I live in luxury. I have jewels that would amaze the wealthiest Venetian noblewomen.’ For a moment a shadow had crossed her face, but then she had smiled at him. ‘And tonight a young prince strong as a stallion shares my bed — how could I be sad?’

Such smoothly flattering words came easily to Anarkali, thought Salim as sleep continued to elude him. All during their love-making she had praised his vigour and the pleasure he gave her, told him he was the greatest lover she had ever had. That everything she said must be artificial, that she probably had no real feelings for him at all, didn’t dim his passion for her. That was how she had been trained and how she had survived. But perhaps at this very moment she was whispering the same words to Akbar. .

Salim sat up. He had come to a decision. He would have Anarkali again. There must be a way and he would find it.

‘There is an old sandstone pavilion hidden away in thick undergrowth on the bank of the Ravi river. It’s only half a mile from here. I sometimes rest in its shade while out snipe hunting. Look. .’ Salim scratched a map with charcoal on a piece of paper. ‘Bring Anarkali to me there tonight while my father is with the members of the ulama. He will hardly call for her to dance before his mullahs.’

‘Your meeting must be brief. Anarkali cannot be long gone from the haram while the emperor is here. And, Highness. . this must be the last time. I cannot keep taking such risks. . the danger is too great for us all.’ The khawajasara’s sharp nose was almost twitching with anxiety.

Salim nodded, though in his heart he had no intention of allowing it to be the last time. He would find other ways to outwit Akbar. ‘Take this. And mind you do not fail me.’ He pressed a bag of gold coins into her hand. ‘I will be waiting for you.’

That night, as velvet shadows stole along the riverbank, Salim pushed his way through the dry rustling reeds towards the pavilion. It must have been beautiful once. Slender columns and a shattered dome lay on the dry earth and, as he lit an oil lamp, the carving on a tumbled block of stone seemed to come to life. It was of a Hindu goddess or dancing girl, naked except for her jewels, voluptuous limbs moving in some joyful dance. It made him think of Anarkali’s sleek, full body and the many positions it could assume, and his pulses quickened.

He sat down with his back against a piece of masonry and waited, listening to the rippling of the Ravi. Some small creature — a mouse perhaps — skittered over his boot-clad feet and he slapped at a mosquito as he felt its sharp bite on the side of his neck. Glancing up he saw the moon had risen. It was nearly full, casting a warm, apricot glow over the night sky, and it meant that time was passing. He strained his ears, hoping to hear a soft footfall along the riverbank, but there was nothing. Perhaps something had happened, or the khawajasara’s courage had finally deserted her, but he wouldn’t give up yet, Salim thought. He continued to sit there, enjoying the beauty of the night and anticipating the moment when he would again bury his face beween those soft breasts. Even if the khawajasara had changed her mind about bringing Anarkali to him tonight he knew he could talk her round. .

Then beyond the thick reed beds he made out a flickering light — a torch perhaps — and smiled. It was a little reckless of the khawajasara — surely there was enough moonlight to guide her steps — but she had never been to the pavilion before and was perhaps afraid of getting lost. Salim rose and peered harder in the direction of the light. He would go to find them. But as he picked his way out of the ruins and began pushing through the surrounding undergrowth he suddenly saw the light of several torches moving towards him. Almost simultaneously he caught the sound of male voices and of swift-moving feet crashing through the dry reeds.

What was happening? Had he been betrayed. .? Feeling for the dagger in his sash, Salim turned, ready to sprint off into the darkness, but found a familiar figure blocking his way.

‘Highness, your father requests that you return at once to the palace.’ Abul Fazl’s small eyes glittered like jet in the light of the torch held by one of the guards who had just arrived behind him.

Shocked, Salim stood motionless. For once Abul Fazl wasn’t bothering to disguise his feelings and Salim had never seen him so joyously triumphant. He struggled to find words to express his hatred and contempt for this man but it was Abul Fazl who spoke again.