Ruler of the World

As Salim looked out three months later from beneath the awning of his large tent at the centre of his camp, the sun was setting over the Chambal river. Flocks of waterfowl — dark silhouettes against the pale orange sunset — were swooping down to roost among the reeds and rushes fringing the riverbank. Under the pretext of an extended tiger hunting expedition he had left his father’s court six weeks previously. For the last few days he had been anxiously scanning the landscape for approaching groups of horsemen, hoping for the return of Suleiman Beg from his clandestine mission to the east but a part of him fearing that any riders who appeared might be Abul Fazl’s men coming to arrest him having discovered his plotting.

Just after noon that day, a group of horsemen had appeared. As they drew closer, emerging from the shimmering heat haze, he had seen there were too few to be an arresting party. To Salim’s great relief, it had been Suleiman Beg. However, he had been so exhausted by long days in the saddle that after reassuring Salim in the broadest terms of his mission’s success he had requested permission to sleep. The two had agreed to discuss the results in more detail as they ate together that night. Behind him in the tent Salim could hear his attendants beginning to make preparations for the meal.

Shading his eyes against the setting sun, he saw Suleiman Beg making his way towards him and stepped forward to greet him. The two men embraced and then, arms round each other’s shoulders, ducked beneath the tent’s fringed green awning and entered.

Here, a low table surrounded by silk-covered bolsters and cushions was spread with an array of foods — chicken and lamb cooked in the tandoor, stew made in the Kashmiri way with dried fruits, mild spices and yoghourt stirred into the sauce, hotter vegetable dishes made according to Gujarati recipes and fish from the Chambal. As they began to eat, dipping into the stews with pieces of nan bread, Salim dismissed the servants and spoke.

‘Tell me about your discussions. How many officers can we count on in the eastern provinces?’

‘Perhaps two hundred. Each new recruit suggested others who might be sympathetic to our cause. They are mostly as we expected — young men like ourselves, eager for responsibility as well as for the rewards I promised them on your behalf. But there are also some older ones disappointed by their lack of advancement or critical of the tolerance your father shows towards former enemies and those of other religions.’

‘How many men do they command in total?’

‘Around thirty thousand.’

‘That should be enough to demonstrate to my father that I must be taken seriously and given more power.’

‘Many were convinced to join us because this is your motivation, not full-scale rebellion and the usurpation of your father’s throne. It reassured them that at some stage you would negotiate.’

‘Then they must continue to believe so.’

‘What do you mean? That is your intention, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. . yes, I suppose it is. Although sometimes I indulge myself by thinking that if all went very well I might force my father’s abdication now rather than wait for his death.’

‘Guard against such thoughts. Your father’s forces are powerful. We will have enough men to show your mettle and your worthiness for a greater role in government affairs, but never enough to succeed in a full revolt. If you tried to do so, some of our existing supporters would fall away.’

‘My father is loved by the people, I know. It sometimes seems to me that he understands them better and cares more about their happiness than he does for many of those closer to him. I will doubtless negotiate. I was only suggesting we should not rule anything out while we see how the situation develops.’

‘When should we take the next step? We shouldn’t wait long. Abul Fazl’s spies are everywhere. He has subtle ways of coaxing secrets from men and changing their loyalties.’

‘Allow me to worry about Abul Fazl. He is only human, after all. But we won’t delay. I’ve already sent messages to people I know to be loyal to me in Agra and Lahore to join me here within a month. When you’re rested and we’ve discussed our plans in more detail you should return east and collect our forces there. Once I have assembled my own men, I’ll ride with them to meet you at Allahabad. Its position at the junction of the Jumna and the Ganges will mean my father will be unable to ignore us if we make that our base.’

Salim held up his hand to halt his column. The messenger he had sent to Nasser Hamid, commander of the garrison of Allahabad, now only four miles away, its domes and towers clearly visible, was galloping back towards them. As the young man reined in there was a broad smile on his face. ‘Highness, Nasser Hamid has thrown open the town to you. He bids you welcome.’

Salim’s shoulders dropped and he began to relax for the first time in weeks. Nasser Hamid was a friend from his youth and in secret correspondence had promised to yield Allahabad to Salim. Nevertheless, as he had ridden towards the city that morning, Salim had felt apprehensive. Everything seemed to be going almost too well. Since parting from Suleiman Beg he had succeeded in winning young officers from both Lahore and Agra to his cause. Just seven weeks ago, scarcely pausing in a conversation with Abul Fazl, Akbar had nodded his assent to his eldest son’s request to leave the court and Lahore on another hunting expedition. The next day Salim had ridden out with a band of his followers on his mission to demand his father’s attention and to prove his worth, as he put it to himself, although he knew others would simply call it rebellion.

As he rode he wondered whether and in what circumstances he would see Akbar again. Of more concern than the impact of his action on his father had been the fact that he could bring neither his wives nor his children with him. He felt far from close enough to any of his wives to take them into his confidence — besides, the haram was notorious for its loose talk. His young sons spent so much of their time with their grandfather that their departure with him would be too unusual to pass without notice. Perhaps his greatest sorrow, though, was that he had been unable to say anything to his grandmother who had worked so hard for his recall from Kabul. He knew how much it would hurt her that he was challenging his father and in such a way. She loved them both and would fear for them both, dreading their confrontation turning into all-out war. At present, however, there was no sign of that. His scouts had reported no traces of pursuit, and when a division of his father’s horsemen on a routine patrol had approached, both their commander and Salim had sheered away, making sure they gave each other a wide berth. As he had ridden day after day with his growing army, Salim had begun to enjoy command and the freedom he felt from interference by his father or anyone else. He knew this would not last for ever and he would need all his abilities to secure the best outcome for himself and also, he reminded himself, for the dynasty.

Suleiman Beg had sent messengers that he and the contingent from Bengal would reach Allahabad in a fortnight. He would be glad to see his milk-brother, not just for the strong body of men he was bringing but also for his friendship, his calm, considered advice and his absolute loyalty. But for the moment he must ensure he made a good entrance into Allahabad to impress its citizens and to reinforce the confidence of his own men.

‘Unfurl our banners,’ he commanded, sitting straighter in the saddle. ‘Order the mounted trumpeters to the front together with the elephants carrying the kettledrums and their drummers. Have our men close ranks, then sound the trumpets, beat the drums, and let us advance into Allahabad.’

‘Highness, an envoy has arrived from Bir Singh, the Bundela Raja of Orchha,’ announced an attendant as, three months later, Salim and Suleiman Beg were standing on the tall crenellated walls of the fort at Allahabad watching Salim’s cavalry drilling on the parade ground below. Nearby on the banks of the Jumna were the long, straight lines of tents which housed the fifty thousand men who by now had gathered to his banner, more than half as many again as he had originally anticipated.

‘I will see him at once. Bring him to me here on the walls.’

Five minutes later a tall, thin man with large gold hoops in both ears climbed the stone staircase up to the battlements. His clothes were travel-stained, and in one hand he was carrying a jute sack around which several black flies were buzzing. When he was within a dozen feet of Salim the man placed the sack on the floor and prostrated himself.

‘What news has the raja for me?’

Quickly regaining his feet, the envoy grinned, exposing uneven white teeth beneath his bushy dark moustache. ‘News that will gladden your heart, Highness.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Bir Singh has fulfilled your wishes.’ While he spoke, the man lifted the sack once more and unpicked the series of tight knots in the cord holding it together. As he opened its folds, a sweet, sickly smell filled the still air.