Alex Rutherford - Ruler of the World

Murad had probably done nothing wrong, Salim mused, despite the stories that he had been drunk when he ordered the flogging. It was just that their father was impossible to please where his sons were concerned. Even had they been perfection in every way they would never have been able to live up to his expectations, his standards and his overwhelming confidence, bolstered by his years of unbroken success, that there was only one way to do things — his. It was typical that instead of sending himself or Daniyal to replace Murad as governor, Akbar had appointed a nephew of the toadying Abul Fazl. A second insect — it felt a little larger this time — was running up Salim’s arm. This time he didn’t grudge the exertion but crushed it, feeling liquid ooze from its scaly body. Pity it wasn’t Abul Fazl, he thought. How much fat could be squeezed from his corpulent frame? Then he closed his eyes and let his mind drift blissfully away.

Waking with a start, Salim saw that the sky above was dark and pricked with stars that seemed to be spiralling across the heavens. His head was throbbing and his mouth was so dry his tongue was sticking to his palate. Putting one hand on the stone balustrade, Salim hauled himself slowly to his feet. His legs, in fact his whole body, were trembling. He couldn’t be cold. It was May, just before the monsoon rains — the hottest time of the year. This had happened to him before but he knew how to remedy it. Clearly he’d not taken enough opium. Dropping to his knees he crawled across the shadowy balcony, which was lit only by a single oil lamp, groping for the wooden box. Where was it? Panic surged through him. What would he do if he couldn’t find it? He must have some more opium quickly. Then he remembered he had attendants. . tens of them. One shout would bring them running to his assistance from the corridor outside his apartments where he had ordered them to remain. But it was all right. . here was the box.

Reaching inside he found the jar, tipped the remaining pellets into his mouth and tried to swallow them but they stuck in his dry gullet — he’d forgotten to dissolve them. He felt himself choking and tried to spit the pellets out again, but they were too firmly lodged. Fighting for breath and peering desperately into the darkness he set out on hands and knees once more, trying to find the ewer of rosewater or the bottle of wine or even one of the brass bowls of marigold petals that stood on the balcony — anything with liquid in it. Just when he thought he was about to black out he felt the cold metal of the ewer. In his haste to grab it, he knocked it over. Bending forward he greedily lapped the water from the floor and at last managed to swallow the pellets down. He could hear a harsh, ragged rasping and it was some moments before he realised it was his own breathing.

Crawling slowly back towards the mattress, he lay down again, arms folded across his chest, hands tucked beneath his armpits, anything to try to get warm. But it was no good, he couldn’t stop shivering. Then he realised what it was — it wasn’t cold but fear. The darkness was filled with strange and terrible creatures. He could see them whirling around him trying to get close, to stupefy him with their fetid breath and steal him away to the dank, earthy graves they inhabited. He must get away before it was too late. . Somehow he managed to drag himself to his knees but then everything went black. .

‘Salim. . Salim. .’ Someone was wiping his face with a cool damp cloth but he twisted away. Suppose it was one of those creatures? ‘Stop fighting. It’s me, Suleiman Beg. .’ Salim felt a strong hand holding him down as the wiping resumed. Forcing his eyes open, he groaned as agonisingly bright sunlight hit them and clenched the lids shut again.

‘Drink this, now!’ Someone was none too gently forcing his mouth open and he felt the rim of something metal against his lower lip. Then his head was being tipped back and water was gushing down his throat. He felt he was drowning, but there was no mercy till at last he heard the clang of the metal cup as it was flung to the floor and rolled away.

Opening his eyes again, this time Salim managed to keep them open and found himself staring up into Suleiman Beg’s face. He had never seen his milk-brother so concerned or so strained. Salim sat up and tried to speak but couldn’t harness his body to do what he wanted. His lips wouldn’t move. He tried again and this time managed a little better, getting as far as ‘I feel’ before, suddenly and violently, a bitter, viscous fluid shot from his mouth. Ashamed, he turned aside from his friend and continued to retch on the floor until at last there was nothing left and his ribs felt as if he’d cracked them. ‘I’m sorry. .’

‘What are you apologising for? Being sick or the fact that you nearly killed yourself?’

‘What. . what. . do you mean? All I did was take opium. .’

‘How much?’

‘I don’t know. .’

‘And wine as well?’

Salim nodded. Putting a hand to his right temple, he found it sticky with congealed blood.

‘You struck your head on the stone balustrade. Look, there’s blood on it where you must have fallen against it,’ said Suleiman Beg, pointing at the red-brown smears.

Salim slowly shook his throbbing head. ‘I don’t remember anything about that. . All I recall is wanting more opium and not being able to find it. . then I was choking. .’

‘Your qorchi heard a crash. You’d forbidden him to enter your apartments so he came to find me. I found you sprawled on the balcony, shivering and shaking and bleeding. . I covered you with blankets and staunched your wound. Salim, you were lucky. .’

He stared at Suleiman Beg, trying to take in what he was saying, but he was starting to feel sick again.

‘I’ve been trying to warn you for weeks. Isn’t it enough to see the state your half-brothers are in? But you’ve descended faster, lower and more determinedly than even they’ve managed. You act irrationally. You lose your temper suddenly and violently. I heard you shouting at Khusrau a few days ago for no reason at all and saw how he looked at you. You’re alienating everyone around you.’ Suleiman Beg sounded really angry.

Salim remained silent, still fighting down the bile that was threatening to rise in his throat.

‘Why, Salim? Why do you do it?’

‘Isn’t the question why not?’ Salim replied at last. ‘At least opium and wine make me happy. I made a mistake about the quantity last night, that’s all. In future I’ll be more careful.’

‘You haven’t answered my question. Why are you setting out to ruin yourself?’

‘My father has no regard for me. My life has no purpose. Murad and Daniyal have the right idea. Why not enjoy myself and forget the rest?’

‘What do you mean by “the rest”? Your health, your sons, the future of your dynasty that used to matter so much to you? It’s the wine and the opium speaking, not you. Have the strength and courage to give them up and then see how you feel.’

Salim scrutinised Suleiman Beg’s flushed, earnest face. ‘I disappoint you, I know. Just as I disappoint my father. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry — do something about it. It’s a good thing your father’s been away on an inspection of Delhi and Agra and hasn’t seen you in this state. . You’ve got four weeks before he returns to Lahore. Use that time to cure yourself. You say your father despises you — well, don’t give him reason to.’

‘You’re a good friend, Suleiman Beg. . I know you mean well but you don’t understand how hard it is. My youth’s passing — my energies and talents are being wasted. .’

‘Don’t lose faith. You’ve told me so often what Shaikh Salim Chishti said to you. . that you wouldn’t have an easy life. . that he didn’t envy you. . but that one day everything you wanted would be yours. You should remember that. The Sufi was a wise man and your behaviour shames his memory.’