Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (28 page)

Twenty minutes later, diamonds flashing in his turban, Akbar took
his place on the throne placed in the balustraded, pulpit-like space at the intersection of the four slender, diagonal walkways supported by the richly-carved central column in his
diwan-i-khas
. Assembled below were the members of his council. He noticed Salim standing towards the back. It was good that the boy was here. He had probably never seen Europeans before.

‘Bring in the visitors,’ Akbar ordered the
qorchi
standing at his side. In a few moments, to the booming of drums from a musicians’ gallery, the youth ushered the priests through a doorway that gave on to one of the balconies and out on to one of the walkways leading to where Akbar was sitting. When the two men, dark robes almost touching the floor, had advanced to within a dozen feet of Akbar, the squire signalled them to halt. Akbar saw that one man was small and sturdily built while the other was taller and paler, the skin of his bald head much freckled by the sun.

Akbar motioned the interpreter standing behind his throne to step closer. ‘Tell them they are welcome at my court.’ However, instead of waiting for the interpreter, the smaller of the two priests addressed Akbar directly in perfect court Persian.

‘You are gracious to invite us to Fatehpur Sikri. We are Jesuit priests. My name is Father Francisco Henriquez. I am a Persian by birth and was once a follower of Islam, though now I am a Christian. My companion is Father Antonio Monserrate.’

‘In your reply to my letter of invitation, you spoke of truths you wished to reveal to me. What are they?’

Father Francisco looked grave. ‘They would take many hours to explain, Majesty, and you would run out of patience. But we have brought you a gift – our Christian gospels written in Latin, the language of our church. We know that you have many scholars at your court, among whom will be those able to translate them for you. Perhaps when you have had a chance to read what is written in our gospels we could talk again.’

They were well informed in some respects, Akbar thought. It was true that he employed learned men – some to translate the chronicles recounting the deeds of his Timurid ancestors from Turki into Persian, others to translate Hindu volumes from their original Sanskrit.
However, what the visiting priests clearly didn’t know was that he himself still couldn’t read. Ahmed Khan had tried to teach him during the long, rain-drenched hours sailing down the Jumna and the Ganges to fight Shah Daud, and in the year since his return Akbar had tried again, but the script still danced before his eyes. Yet frustrating as he found his failure, it had only fed his passion for books and the wisdom they contained. He always had a scholar on hand to read to him and was assembling a great library to rival any of the collections once held by his ancestors in far-off Samarkand and Herat.

‘I will have your gift translated, and as soon as the first pages are ready we will talk again. I trust you will remain guests at my court until at least that time,’ he said after a moment.

‘We would be honoured, Majesty. We intend to spare no effort to shed the glorious light of our Saviour upon you.’ As he spoke these words, Father Francisco’s dark eyes gleamed and his whole face seemed possessed by a deep fervour. It would be interesting to debate religion with a man who had once followed the path of Islam but turned from it, Akbar reflected as the two priests were led away, and also to discover what these so-called gospels had to say. Father Francisco had made them sound complex and mysterious. Would they really reveal new truths? And who was this ‘Saviour’? Was he another incarnation, like the father or the son or that spirit they called the ‘holy ghost’? He felt impatient to know.

He was also curious to know what Salim had made of the new arrivals. He ordered an attendant to ask the prince to join him in his private apartments, and half an hour later he was looking down at his young son. ‘I saw you watching the Christian priests. What did you think of them?’

‘They looked strange.’

‘In what way? Their clothes?’

‘Yes, but more than that . . . there was something about their faces . . . almost as if they were hungry for something.’

‘In a way they are. They hope to make Christians of us.’

‘I heard one of our mullahs calling them foreign infidels and saying that you should never have invited them.’

‘What do you think?’

Salim looked startled. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea to find out as much as possible about other people’s beliefs? After all, how can you show people they are wrong if you don’t know what they think?’

This time Salim said nothing at all, but stared awkwardly at the ground.

‘A strong, confident emperor doesn’t need to fear those who hold different views, does he? Think about it, Salim. Don’t your own studies make you curious to explore beyond the world you know?’

Salim looked towards the door, obviously anxious for this interview to end, and Akbar felt a surge of exasperation. He had expected more of his eldest son. Admittedly, Salim was young, but surely when he’d been that age he’d have had more to say – intelligent questions to ask. ‘You must have some opinion,’ he persisted. ‘After all, why did you come to see the priests? I didn’t see your brothers there, only you.’

‘I wanted to see what Christian priests look like . . . I’ve heard all kinds of stories about them, and one of my tutors gave me this letter from a man who had met a priest in Delhi. It describes how the Christians worship a man nailed to a wooden cross.’ Salim reached inside his orange tunic and took out a piece of folded paper. ‘There’s a drawing of the cross, but look what the letter says, Father – especially the last lines, about how the Christians pray.’

Akbar stared at the letter in his son’s outstretched hand. Salim must know that he couldn’t read . . . Slowly he took the piece of paper and unfolded it. At the top was a sketch of a skeletally thin man nailed to a cross, face creased in agony and head lolling. Beneath the drawing were some densely written lines that of course meant nothing to him. ‘I will keep this and look at it later,’ Akbar said, unable to help the sharp edge to his voice. ‘Leave me now.’

Had his son intended to discomfit him? Akbar wondered, pacing his apartments after Salim had gone. Surely not. Why should he? But then the image of Hirabai’s proud, unyielding face came into his mind. What if she was encouraging Salim to despise him, just as she did? He knew from questioning the boy’s tutor that Salim was
spending more and more time with his mother in her silent sandstone palace in the
haram
complex. She never saw her brother Bhagwan Das or her nephew Man Singh when they came to court, never held entertainments or gave parties, but – or so he had been told – kept herself aloof from the
haram
, spending her time reading, sewing with her Rajput waiting women and worshipping her gods. Every month at the time of the full moon, she climbed to the pavilion on the roof of her palace to gaze into the heavens and pray.

Perhaps it was simply her self-imposed isolation from him that was affecting Salim, causing the boy to start to behave towards his father as she did? Salim used to be so free and open, but not any more. Now that Akbar thought about it, this wasn’t the first time he’d noticed how awkward and tongue-tied his eldest son had become in his presence. His jaw hardened. Hirabai could live as she chose but he would not allow her to influence their son. Though he wouldn’t wish to prevent Salim from seeing his haughty mother, perhaps he should ensure the visits were short and the pair were not left unattended.

L
ife was good. Akbar lay, eyes closed, feeling the air stir pleasantly around his naked body as a silk
punkah
swung rhythmically back and forth above him. He could hear the sound of water trickling down the
tattis
, the screens filled with the roots of scented
kass
grass that in summer were placed over the arched windows to cool the hot dry desert air blowing through them.

He had much enjoyed the past hours spent in the arms of a dancing girl from Delhi whose long, jasmine-scented hair fell to the curve of her buttocks. Although he was in his mid-thirties he congratulated himself he still had the vigour of any young blood. He certainly had no need of the
hakims
’ aphrodisiac potions like ‘the Making of the Horse’ – a dark green foul-smelling concoction that supposedly gave a jaded man the sexual energy of a stallion and according to
haram
gossip was favoured by some of the more elderly members of his court. Nevertheless, he liked to explore new paths to pleasure. Sometimes he ordered one of his concubines to read to him from the centuries-old Hindu
Kama Sutra
, marvelling that there could be so many ways of making love. He smiled as he remembered the boy he had been with Mayala all those years ago. He would never have imagined then that he would acquire such a vast
haram
.

But at the thought, some of his contentment and post-coital languor ebbed. Soon he must rise and go to the
diwan-i-khas
for a
meeting with members of the
ulama
. Jauhar had warned him what they wanted – to object to his intention of taking further wives because, having recently wed the daughter of an important vassal from the south, he already had four, the maximum permitted by Sunni Islam. Akbar sat up. He wouldn’t tolerate any interference. Dynastic marriages were the cornerstone of his policy for pacifying and extending his empire and it was working. He would take a hundred wives, two hundred, if it would help secure his empire, whether further Rajput princesses or women from the old Moghul clans or Hindustan’s Muslim nobility, whether plain or beautiful.

Of course, it had been very different for his father. Humayun had found in one woman – Hamida – the expression of his heart and soul. Sometimes he wished he himself could feel the same intense love for one woman but it had never happened and perhaps never would. At least it made it easier for him to pursue his policy of strategic alliances and left him free to enjoy an infinite variety of sexual partners. He now had over three hundred concubines. Most men would envy him, he reflected, pushing thoughts of the sour-faced
ulama
from his mind as he recalled once more the dancing girl, supple body gleaming with perfumed oil.

Two hours later, in robes of emerald silk embroidered with peacocks and with a jewelled ceremonial dagger tucked into his bright yellow sash, Akbar took his place on his throne on the circular platform atop the tall carved pillar in the
diwan-i-khas
, Abul Fazl and the now stooped figure of his vizier Jauhar behind him. On one of the balconies stood the members of his
ulama
. Shaikh Ahmad was standing slightly to the fore, obviously expecting to be invited to advance along the narrow bridge to the platform. Akbar gestured to him to remain where he was.

‘Well, Shaikh Ahmad. What do you wish to say to me?’

The shaikh touched his hand to his breast but the small brown eyes he fixed on Akbar were far from humble. ‘Majesty, the time has come for plain speaking. Your intention to take further wives is an affront to God.’

Akbar leaned forward. ‘Be careful what you say.’

‘You are defying what is written in the Koran. I have spoken to
you about this many times in private but you have chosen not to listen, forcing me to protest in public. If you still will not heed me, I will preach my message from the pulpit of the great mosque at Friday prayers.’ The shaikh’s face was flushed and he seemed to interpret Akbar’s silence as encouraging. Drawing up his portly body and with a triumphant glance over his shoulder at his colleagues, he continued, ‘The Koran permits a man only four marriages –
nikah
marriages with women of the Muslim faith. Yet I hear that you plan to take many more – some not even Muslims. If you do not draw back, God will punish you and our empire.’

‘I already have two Hindu wives, as you very well know. Each has borne me a son. Are you suggesting I renounce them?’

The shaikh thrust out his chin. ‘Let them be concubines, Majesty. Your royal sons will still enjoy the status of royal princes. Many princes have been born to concubines . . . your own grandfather’s brother, for example . . .’

Akbar looked at the mullah, wondering how it would feel to take his sword and slice through that fleshy neck. The thought came that even after being severed, that pompous, self-righteous head would probably still keep talking.

‘Shaikh Ahmad, I have done you the courtesy of listening to you. Now listen to me. I am the emperor. I alone will decide what is best for my empire and for my people. I will not tolerate your meddling.’

The mullah flushed but said nothing. Akbar was about to dismiss the
ulama
when Abul Fazl’s father Shaikh Mubarak stepped forward. Akbar hadn’t noticed him till now.

‘Majesty, if I might be permitted to speak, I might be able to propose a solution.’

‘Very well.’

‘Like Shaikh Ahmad, I am a Sunni Muslim, but I have spent some years studying the ways of our Shia brothers. I have come to see that they – like us – are faithful followers of the Prophet Muhammad and that we should not allow doctrinal differences to make us enemies.’

‘You speak wisely, but why is this relevant to what you have just heard?’

‘It could not be more relevant, Majesty. The Shias believe that the Koran permits another, lesser form of marriage – the
muta
. A man may contract a
muta
marriage with any number of women, whatever their religion, and with no need for any formal ceremony . . .’

‘That is heresy . . . no true believer would follow such a path,’ interrupted Shaikh Ahmad, shaking his head angrily.

‘Perhaps it isn’t heresy. A particular verse of the Koran – I will show it to you – appears to sanction these
muta
marriages. They are common in Persia . . .’

‘Yes, and the corrupt practices of that sacrilegious land are spreading to our own. I have heard that the owners of our caravanserais now offer
muta
wives to merchants for the night as an inducement to stay there. It is no more than an excuse for prostitution!’