Ruler of the World

‘Poisoned? That’s impossible. Everything my father eats is tasted three times and each dish sealed by the mir bahawal, the master of the kitchen, and escorted to his table by guards. . even the Ganges water he is so fond of is checked again and again.’

‘Ways can always be found. Remember how your great-grandfather nearly died at the hands of a poisoner here in Agra. It was my grandfather Abdul-Malik who treated him. But I now believe my suspicions were groundless. I ordered some of the vomit to be fed at once to pariah dogs but not one has shown any ill effects. Also, your father’s symptoms are not developing as they would if he had been poisoned.’

‘What is it then? The same stomach illness that afflicted him a few months ago?’

‘Very probably, though I can’t be sure yet. Whatever the malady is, it is racking your father with great virulence. My colleagues and I are doing everything we can to discover the cause, I promise you, Highness.’

‘I am sure you are. May I see the emperor?’

‘He is in great pain and has asked not to be disturbed.’

‘Can’t you relieve his suffering?’

‘Of course. I offered him opium but he refused it. He says there are important issues he must decide and that to do so he must keep his mind absolutely clear, even if it costs him pain.’

Salim’s eyes widened as he took in the significance of the doctor’s words. There was only one reason why Akbar would have said such a thing — the choice of successor. He must think he was dying. .

‘Hakim, I know how much faith my father has in you. Save him.’

‘I will do my best, Highness, but I must be honest. He is weaker than I have ever seen him. His pulse is faint and ragged, and I suspect he has been suffering far longer and far more than he admits from his stomach problems. Only the severity of tonight’s attack induced him to summon me.’

‘Hakim. .’ Salim began; then, hearing footsteps, broke off. Khusrau was running down the corridor towards them.

‘I have just heard the news. How is my grandfather?’ Khusrau’s flushed face looked to Salim’s cynical eyes more excited than anxious.

‘He is gravely ill,’ he replied shortly. ‘Ahmed Malik will tell you the details. But don’t let your questions detain him too long from your grandfather’s bedside.’

He walked slowly away down the dimly lit corridor as he tried to collect his thoughts. A few torches still burned in their sconces but as he looked through an open casement a pale band of light on the horizon showed dawn was near. Turning a corner, he saw Suleiman Beg waiting for him.

‘Well?’ his milk-brother asked.

Salim slowly shook his head. ‘I think the hakim believes my father is dying, though he didn’t use those words. So, I think, does my father. But it seems incredible. I’ve thought about his death so many times — of what it would mean for my future. But I never believed the moment would come, never mind considered how I’d feel.’

Suleiman Beg stepped closer and put his hands on Salim’s shoulders. ‘You must push your feelings aside, complex as I’m sure they must be. News of the emperor’s illness is already spreading and Khusrau’s men are swaggering about the Agra fort as if they already own it. The talk everywhere is about who the emperor will name as his heir.’

‘That’s for my father to decide.’

‘Of course. But none of us can predict what’s going to happen. Forgive me, but the emperor might die before he has a chance to choose a successor. . and even if he nominates you, Khusrau’s men may rise in rebellion. You must prepare. The stronger you are, the quicker you can strike if you have to.’

‘You’re a good friend to me and are right as always, Suleiman Beg. What do you suggest I do?’

‘Let me summon those commanders we know to be loyal to you to the capital with their troops.’

‘Very well. But tell them to come quietly, without ostentation. I must do nothing to provoke suspicion or indeed cause anxiety to my father.’

Akbar’s face looked wan and his hands lay claw-like on the green silk coverlet as his attendants gently set down the chair on which they had carried him from his apartments to his private audience chamber. It was two days since he had fallen ill again and the hakims had still been unable to prevent him from passing and vomiting blood, although there had been some reduction in its frequency, probably because he had taken no nourishment. No wonder his skin looked almost transparent. It was hard to believe the frail old man before them had once run jubilantly round the battlements of the Agra fort, a youth clutched beneath each muscular arm.

Akbar’s attendants were arranging a bolster behind his back. Salim saw his father wince with pain but after taking a moment to master himself the emperor began to speak. ‘I asked you here, my loyal counsellors — my ichkis as my father and grandfather would have called you — to help me take perhaps the most important decision of my reign.’ Akbar’s voice was low but authoritative as ever. ‘My illness is no secret. I will probably die soon. That is unimportant. What matters is that I leave my empire — the Moghul empire — in safe hands.’ Salim noticed Khusrau, resplendent in his favourite silver and purple, edge a little further forward at his grandfather’s words.

‘I would have made my decision long ago but I wasn’t sure whether to chose my eldest son Salim or my eldest grandson Khusrau. Convinced I still had more years to live, I decided to wait and to observe them both before judging which is better fitted to rule. But I no longer have the luxury of time. The choice will be mine alone, but before I make it I wish to hear your views. You are my advisers. Speak.’

Salim caught his breath. In the next few minutes, the course of his future life would be decided. Shaikh Salim Chishti’s words echoed in his brain — ‘You will be emperor’ — but much had happened since that warm dark night when he had run out of the palace of Fatehpur Sikri to ask for the Sufi’s help. Despite his efforts he had never fully won his father’s admiration — or even his attention for long — and had allowed desperation and ambition to lure him into rash acts. He was sure Akbar had never forgiven Abul Fazl’s murder even if they were now formally reconciled.

Man Singh of Amber, Khusrau’s maternal uncle, stepped forward. ‘Majesty, you ask our views and I will give you mine. I favour Prince Khusrau. He is young, with many years still ahead of him. Much as I respect my brother- in-law Prince Salim, he is approaching his middle years. He should advise and guide his son, not sit upon the throne himself.’ As he finished, Man Singh gave a little shake of his head as if what he had just said weighed heavily upon him and had not been easy. What hypocrisy, thought Salim. It was obviously in Man Singh’s interests for his nephew to become the new emperor.

‘I agree,’ said Aziz Koka, one of Akbar’s youngest commanders. Salim’s lip curled. It was common knowledge that Khusrau had promised to make him his khan-i-khanan when he became emperor. ‘We need a young and vigorous leader to take us to yet further glories,’ the man added portentously.

Silence fell in the chamber and Salim saw the courtiers exchange glances. Then Hassan Amal, whose father had ridden as a youth with Babur from Kabul stepped forward.

‘No!’ Although he must have been at least ten years older than Akbar, his voice was firm and resolute. ‘Many times in our history brother has challenged brother for the throne, but it has never been the way of the old Moghul clans to set aside the father in favour of the son. The natural — indeed the only — successor to our great emperor must be Prince Salim. I believe I speak not only for myself but for many others gathered here who have been worried by the recent rivalry between the factions supporting the two princes. It is unseemly and it is dangerous. I am old enough to remember the days before we were secure in Hindustan — when our future here hung in the balance. Today we are undisputed masters of a great empire and must not put that at risk by breaking with custom. Justice and prudence demand that Prince Salim, the Emperor Akbar’s eldest and only surviving son, succeeds to the throne. Like all of us he has made mistakes, but equally, experience has taught him many lessons. He will, I am sure, make a worthy emperor.’

‘That would be my view too, as your khan-i-khanan,’ said Abdul Rahman gently. All around heads were nodding in agreement but Salim, watching his father’s face for a sign, could tell nothing. Akbar’s eyes were half closed and for a moment he was afraid his father was losing consciousness. But then the emperor raised a hand.

‘Hassan Amal and Abdul Rahman, I am grateful to you both for your wisdom, as I have been many times before. I can see your words have the support of the majority present. They confirm what was already in my heart.