Alex Rutherford - Ruler of the World

‘I thank you for your hospitality, Asmat. I have not tasted better food since coming to Kabul.’

‘You do us great honour, Highness. Many years ago your father the emperor saved our family from poverty, perhaps worse. I am glad to repay even a tiny portion of the debt we owe you.’ She spoke court Persian as elegantly as her husband, in a voice both musical and low.

‘My father acquired a good and loyal servant when he sent your husband here. There is no debt.’

Asmat looked towards her husband. ‘Highness, we have another request. May our daughter Mehrunissa dance for you? Her teachers, who have trained her in the Persian style, say that she is not unskilled.’

‘Certainly.’ Salim lay back against the cushions and took another sip of the dark red wine. He would be intrigued to see this girl who had been abandoned beneath a tree to the jackals and the elements.

A trio of musicians — two drummers and a flautist — entered the courtyard. The drummers at once struck up a compelling rhythm, and as the piper put his instrument to his lips a languorous melody issued from it. Then came a tinkling of bells keeping perfect time with the musicians and Mehrunissa ran into the courtyard. Like her mother she was veiled but above the veil her eyes were as large and lustrous as Asmat’s. She was wearing a loose robe of blue silk the colour of a kingfisher’s wing. As she raised her arms and began to revolve, Salim saw that in each hand she was holding a golden ring hung with tiny silver bells.

For a moment a vision of the last woman to dance before him — Anarkali — swam before him, bringing with it the sense of shame and regret her memory still conjured. But Mehrunissa’s dance was unlike anything Salim had ever seen in Hindustan, slow, graceful and controlled. Every gesture of her slender hands and fingers, the way she held her head, the stately sway of her body beneath the blue silk, the beat of her henna-painted feet on the ground, compelled attention. Salim leaned forward as the music grew louder. Mehrunissa flung back her head as if filled with the joy of the dance and then quite suddenly the music ceased and she was kneeling decorously at his feet.

‘That is one of the shah’s favourite dances, celebrating the coming of spring,’ said Ghiyas Beg, face soft with pride.

‘You are as gifted a dancer as your father said. Please rise.’

Mehrunissa got gracefully to her feet, but as she reached to push back a stray lock of shining black hair she caught a corner of her veil and it fell away, exposing her full mouth, a small straight nose and the soft curve of her cheeks. For a moment she looked straight into Salim’s eyes before quickly refastening her veil.

‘You only saw her for a few moments.’

‘It was enough, Suleiman Beg.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t had a woman for a while.’

Salim glared at his milk-brother. Since leaving Lahore and his wives and haram , the memory of Anarkali’s tumbling golden hair and voluptuous body — all that beauty to which he had brought such ruin — had curbed his desire, it was true, but his abstinence had certainly not been total and wasn’t why he felt like this.

‘Are you sure it’s not because for some unfathomable reason you like her father? You think her mind might be like his and her body female perfection.’ Suleiman Beg smiled and cracked a walnut between his teeth, flinging the shell out of the open casement in Salim’s apartments overlooking the courtyard. ‘What’s really so special about her?’

‘Everything. The way she moved — her grace. She was like a queen.’

‘Big breasts?’

‘She’s not a whore from the bazaars.’

‘Then I repeat my question because I just don’t understand. From what you say, a veiled woman did a brief dance for you and all of a sudden your loins are on fire. .’

‘I saw her face. Suleiman Beg, it reminds me of how my grandmother speaks of Humayun’s feelings when he first saw her. There was something about it. . I can’t get her out of my mind.’

‘I thought you said she was veiled.’

‘For a moment her veil slipped.’

‘That was clever of her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s the daughter of a petty official living in an outpost of your empire.’ Suleiman Beg spat a tough piece of nut on to the floor but Salim knew it was Kabul he’d really like to spit on. Suleiman Beg was bored here and couldn’t wait to return to Hindustan. ‘That was her chance to catch your eye. Much better to be an imperial concubine than left to fester here.’

Perhaps Suleiman Beg was right, Salim thought. In his mind’s eye he recaptured that moment when her veil had slipped. Had it been by design? And had she delayed raising it again just long enough for him to see her face? If so, then all to the good. It meant she wanted him too. He stood up. ‘I don’t desire her merely as a concubine. I wish her to be my wife.’

Dusk was falling when an attendant brought Salim word that Ghiyas Beg had come to the citadel. As soon as the Persian was shown into his apartment, Salim said eagerly, ‘Ghiyas Beg, I summoned you here not as your prince but — or so I hope — as your future son-in-law. I want to marry your daughter. Give me Mehrunissa and I will make her first among my wives and first in my heart.’

Ghiyas Beg’s eyes widened. Instead of the smiles Salim had anticipated, he looked agitated.

‘What is it, Ghiyas Beg?’

‘Highness, what you ask is impossible.’

‘I don’t understand. . I thought you would welcome my offer.’

‘I do, Highness. It is a great honour, an unimaginable honour. But I must repeat what I said. It is out of the question.’

‘Why?’ Without realising what he was doing Salim stepped forward and grabbed Ghiyas Beg’s thin arm above the elbow.

‘My daughter is already promised.’

‘To whom?’

‘To one of your father’s commanders in Bengal, Sher Afghan. As a man of honour, I cannot break off their betrothal. I am truly sorry, Highness.’

Chapter 26

Oblivion

‘Highness, a letter has arrived for you from Lahore.’

Salim’s qorchi handed him a green leather pouch secured by a twist of gold wire from which the imperial seal was dangling. Inside, Salim found a thick piece of paper folded into four and opened it to see Abul Fazl’s familiar handwriting — lines and lines of it. As usual, it was only towards the bottom of the page after all the empty airy courtesies that Salim found the real meat of what his father’s chronicler had to say:

His gracious Majesty the emperor, in his great and fathomless mercy commands you to return immediately to Lahore where he has fresh tasks he wishes you to undertake. He asks me to say that he hopes that from this time forward your footsteps will return to the path of righteousness and you will become a dutiful son who will never again deviate in the manner that has so distressed and disappointed him

.

Salim handed the letter to Suleiman Beg, who grinned broadly as he read it. ‘I was afraid we might be stuck here for years.’

‘It’s typical that the style and even the seals are Abul Fazl’s and not my father’s. Nevertheless, I didn’t expect to be recalled after only eight months. I’m surprised.’

‘You might look more cheerful about it. You’re not still obsessed with that Persian girl, are you? When you get back to your wives and haram you’ll realise she was no more than a passing fancy because you were bored.’

Salim considered. How did he really feel? His relationship — friendship even — with Ghiyas Beg had made his stay in Kabul much less irksome than it might have been, and after seeing Mehrunissa she had occupied his mind as much as thoughts of returning to court. But since Ghiyas Beg’s rejection of his offer of marriage to her a constraint had inevitably sprung up between them. Salim’s visits to the Persian’s house had grown less frequent and of course he had not seen Mehrunissa again. He had, however, discovered that she was not due to wed Sher Afghan until the following year. Perhaps back in Lahore he could persuade his father to use his influence with Ghiyas Beg. If the emperor himself commanded Mehrunissa’s betrothal to be broken off, Ghiyas Beg as a loyal subject could only obey. .