‘Highness, do you remember something you once said to me? I believe it was “I see you for what you are, and the day when my father sees it as well will be a good one.” Now it seems it will be the other way round. Your father is about to see you for what
‘Summon the whore.’ High on his throne, dressed in robes of such deep purple they were almost black, Akbar’s face as he looked down on his assembled courtiers was mask-like. Not by the flicker of a muscle did he acknowledge the presence of Salim, standing bare-headed below the dais and still dressed in the clothes in which he had gone to his rendezvous with Anarkali.
‘Father, let me speak. .’
‘How dare you address me as Father when your actions show nothing but contempt for our relationship. Be silent or I will have you silenced.’ Akbar’s voice was full of pent-up fury.
A few minutes later, through the double doors of the audience chamber, Anarkali appeared, pushed into the room by two bulky female
‘You were my concubine, my favourite. I gave you everything you could desire yet you betrayed me as your emperor and as a man by giving yourself to this wretch who calls himself my son. There is only one penalty — death.’
Anarkali’s face contorted with fear and horror. A convulsive shudder ran through her as she tried to scramble to her feet. One of the female gaurds pushed her down again, jabbing her viciously in the small of the back with the end of her long wooden staff.
‘Please, Majesty. .’
‘My ears are deaf to your pleas. I have decided your punishment. You will be placed in a small cell in the palace dungeons, which will then be bricked up. As minutes turn to hours, hours to days, and death draws near, you will have time to contemplate your crime.’
‘No! It was my fault, not hers. I desired her and bribed the
‘I know,’ said Akbar, at last turning his gaze on Salim. ‘How do you think I learned of your despicable acts? The
Two guards seized Anarkali, who began screaming and clutching at the carpet with her bound hands as if hoping that somehow she could cling on to it and delay the dreadful punishment Akbar had decreed. Salim looked away, unable to bear the sight of the beauty that had so tempted him and now as a consequence was to be destroyed. The knowledge that there was nothing he could do or say to save her overwhelmed him. Only when Anarkali’s screams had finally receded and the doors had closed behind her did Salim again look up at his father. How cold he seemed, sitting there all-powerful on his glittering throne. What fate was he about to pronounce on his eldest son? Would his father take his life? For a moment Salim could almost feel the bite of cold steel on the back of his neck. He had always thought of his father, despite his faults, as honourable and just, but his terrible revenge on Anarkali had shaken that belief. Wronged as a man, he had lashed out as a man.
‘Salim, as you yourself have admitted, you are the guiltiest of all.’ After a pause, Akbar continued, ‘How can I ever again trust a son who betrays me in such a way? Your life is worthless to me and to the Moghul empire.’
Salim felt as if his throat was constricting but if he was to die he must not show fear, so he tried to match his father stare for stare.
‘You are still young and, unlike you, I place some value on our shared blood. My own mother has pleaded for you so I will be merciful. Tomorrow, you will set out for Kabul on an imperial inspection and there you will stay until I am ready to recall you. Your wives, your children and the rest of your household will remain here. Now go from my presence before I regret my mercy.’
‘You’re jealous of me because I am young and you are getting old. You cannot admit that you are mortal and fear that one day I will take your place on your throne as well as with your women,’ Salim wanted to shout, but what was the point? Turning on his heel, he walked slowly away down the carpet that was still marked by the tracks of Anarkali’s dragging feet. Was this the end of all his ambitions — if not of his life?
Chapter 24
Driving rain lashed the roof of Salim’s large tent as he tossed and turned beneath his fine cotton sheets and embroidered woollen Kashmiri blankets. His sleep was troubled as it had so often been since leaving Lahore some weeks earlier. Once more, Anarkali’s lovely face swam before him, warm, vital and alive. Except that by now she would be dead. As he watched, her face seemed to tauten and her skin to shrivel away, exposing her skull, which slowly crumbled to dust, leaving only two bright blue eyes to gaze on him reproachfully for a moment before they also dissolved into the darkness.
Salim woke with a start, clutching at his bedclothes. Guilt at Anarkali’s fate still weighed on him like a stone, exacerbated by his realisation after many sleepless nights that she had simply been an intoxicating plaything whom it had flattered his vanity to steal from Akbar. Perhaps if he had truly loved her his actions would seem less despicable to him. But he had carelessly and greedily helped himself to Anarkali, another human being, with no more thought than if he’d been plucking the ripest mango from the tree or the most tempting sweetmeat from the dish. Among his few comforts in his restless hours had been that — at least according to the message that had reached him from Hamida three days after he had ridden out from Lahore — Anarkali would not have suffered for long. His resourceful grandmother had written that she had found a way of smuggling a phial of poison to her as he had begged her to. He hoped this was true and that his grandmother was not merely seeking to console him.
The enormity of what had happened and its consequences swept over him once more. His melancholy thoughts turned to his own position, hundreds of miles from his family and the centre of power at the court, and on his way to banishment beyond the Khyber Pass at the very edge of the Moghul empire. Not only had he caused Anarkali’s death by his lustful provoking of his father but there was little chance now that he would fulfil Shaikh Salim Chishti’s prophecy that one day he would become emperor. Surely all his hopes and expectations were dust. . If his half-brothers had even a shred of ambition they would be able to profit from his absence to promote their claims to Akbar above his. And what if his father were to die suddenly? Abul Fazl and his cronies would have settled the succession before news of his father’s death had even reached him.
As the howling wind began to buffet and bow the heavy fabric of his tent Salim, in an effort to distract himself from such depressing thoughts, started to plan his onward journey. Yesterday he and his three hundred and fifty men had crossed the cold churning waters of the Indus at Attock. A young pack elephant had panicked when the raft on which it was standing had collided with another in midstream. It had tumbled in and the strong currents had carried it away, still trumpeting in terror, together with its load of precious cooking equipment. Yet despite the dangers the remainder of the party had crossed safely to the north bank.
It had been purple dusk when the last raft had been secured and unloaded. The wind had already been pushing rain clouds across the sky as he had given the order to make camp immediately among the mud banks and sandy hillocks bordering the great river. Today he would allow his men, tired by the strenuous river crossing, to sleep later than usual before breaking their makeshift camp to begin the next stage of their journey into exile — on to Peshawar and the entrance to the Khyber Pass, places familiar to him only through the tales of his grandmother and those commanders who had served in the region.
Salim’s eyelids were feeling heavy, but just as he began to fall asleep a scream brought him to instant wakefulness. Was it simply some animal meeting its death in the teeth of a predator or was it human? Moments later another cry followed by a shout of ‘To arms’ banished all doubt. His camp was under attack.
