Alex Rutherford - Ruler of the World

She would have been too honest to do so unreservedly. She had recognised his faults: not only his drinking, his opium taking and his lusts but also his short temper, his impatience and his unforgiving hatred and hunger for vengeance against those such as Abul Fazl who he thought mistreated him. However, despite these failings she had still believed in him and his ability to redeem his faults if he came to rule. He hoped she would have said as much to his sons too. If she ever had, Khusrau at least had shown no signs of taking the message on board. He continued to distance himself from his father, correct, formal and emotionless when they met but seeming to avoid contact whenever he could and, Salim suspected, continuing to hope to supplant him. That was perhaps how Akbar felt about himself, Salim realised. Then he looked across at his father’s lined and tear-stained face and instinctively, almost involuntarily, placed his hand on his elbow in a gesture of understanding and support in his present grief. As the drums beat a slow and mournful tattoo and Hamida’s body was carried carefully up the boat’s gangplank, Akbar allowed his son’s hand to remain on his arm while he took his leave of his mother on earth.

‘Suleiman Beg, you’re bleeding. What’s happened?’ Salim exclaimed as his milk-brother pushed his way through the hangings covering the doorway into Salim’s apartment, crimson blood staining his green tunic and running down his left hand and fingers to drip on to the white marble floor.

‘Just a small argument about the succession and a flesh wound.’

‘Come here, let me see. Should I summon the hakim ?’

‘Perhaps. Scratch though this wound is, I may require his needle and thread.’ Suleiman Beg held out his hand and Salim ripped back the fabric of his tunic sleeve to reveal the wound — a three-inch-long slash to the upper arm just above the elbow. As Salim dabbed the blood away with his own neckcloth he saw that it had exposed some creamy yellow fat and some muscle but had not penetrated to the bone.

‘You’re right. It’s a clean wound and not too deep, but you will need the hakim . It’s bleeding a lot so hold your arm above your head to lessen the flow while I bind it.’ As he wound his neckcloth around Suleiman Beg’s muscled biceps, he shouted for one of his attendants to fetch the hakim and then asked Suleiman Beg once more, this time with a concern in his voice that went beyond his care for his closest friend, ‘What happened? How do you mean, an argument about the succession?’

‘I was walking through the courtyard past a band of Khusrau’s youthful followers when one said to another in a voice deliberately raised for me to hear, “There goes old Suleiman Beg. I pity him. He has backed the wrong candidate to succeed the emperor. Unlike us, when Khusrau comes to power — and not his rebel of a father — he’ll be left with nothing. Perhaps one of us should make him our khutmagar , our butler. He must know enough about wine. He’ll have poured plenty for Salim.” I knew the taunt was meant to provoke me but I couldn’t help myself. I turned and walked up to the group, grabbed the speaker by the throat, flung him back against one of the pillars and invited him to repeat what he’d said. He spluttered that the time for my generation was past. When the emperor died we’d be passed over. It would be for the young to succeed.

‘Then I told him, tightening my grip around his throat, to ask me to become his khutmagar , if he would. He said nothing. I squeezed harder still. His face was turning purple and his eyes were popping. If I’d persisted a minute longer he’d have been dead. Suddenly I felt a sharp stinging pain in my arm. One of his companions, bolder than the rest, had slashed me with his dagger to make me release my grip. For a moment my eyes met my assailant’s, both of us appalled at what had happened and even more at what might have happened. . Then Khusrau’s little adherents ran off, hauling with them their loud-mouthed companion, who was still gasping for breath. His throat will hurt for days and he should at least think twice before provoking his betters again.’

‘I couldn’t have shown the restraint you did,’ said Salim. ‘Khusrau’s followers are becoming ever bolder, posturing and strutting around and proclaiming my son’s virtues and his fitness to rule. Since Daniyal’s miserable death left me the only survivor of my father’s sons, their clamour for the crown to skip a generation has become more intense and more open. How dare they attack you? It’s as if they want to see how far they can go or perhaps even provoke me into action against them, thus alienating my father.’

‘Why doesn’t the emperor stop them?’

‘I don’t know. He’s aged a lot since the deaths of his mother and Daniyal. Suddenly he looks his sixty-two years and his bouts of stomach problems have become more frequent. His greatest interest seems to be in the company of Khurram, testing and probing his abilities and teaching him in a way he never did with his sons or indeed his other grandsons.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t deliberately letting Khusrau and his followers push their case to see what level of support they can muster compared to ourselves.’

‘Perhaps so. I’ve been pleased that even some of the older nobles promoted on Abul Fazl’s urgings are now beginning to cultivate my favour, perturbed by Khusrau’s pressure for youth to rule experience. Maybe my father is being more astute than I give him credit for and is flushing out the preferences of his courtiers.’

‘Frail as he is becoming, the emperor should never be underestimated.’

‘But then how do you explain his outbursts against me? The other day, for example, when he criticised my handling of some of the military training, suggesting in front of the whole court I had been negligent or in an opium trance just because a fool of an officer, as the man later admitted, had misheard my command and turned his squadron in the wrong direction on the parade ground.’

‘All men hate to lose their grip on power. Sometimes if they feel it slipping they cannot help but lash out in frustration at their successors, raging inwardly at their debility and the transitoriness of power and even of life itself.’

‘You’re becoming a philosopher, Suleiman Beg,’ said Salim as one of his qorchis appeared through the hangings of the doorway to announce hakim ’s arrival. ‘Enough. Let’s talk more later. Now you must let the hakim perfect his embroidery on you.’

‘What is it, Khurram?’ said Salim, surprised to see his youngest son approaching across the courtyard where he and Suleiman Beg were playing chess.

‘My grandfather says that it will aid his recovery to full health to watch you and Khusrau pit your best fighting elephants one against the other.’

Salim and Suleiman Beg exchanged glances. ‘When?’

‘Later this afternoon when it grows a little cooler. My grandfather wishes the fight to take place on the banks of the Jumna below the fort so he can watch from the jharoka balcony.’

‘Tell him that I am happy to obey and that I will send my favourite fighting elephant, World Shaker, against Khusrau’s.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Have you spoken yet to your brother?’

‘It was Khusrau who suggested holding a fight when he came to visit Grandfather today. He was praising a giant elephant he’d imported from Bengal called Damudar that has never yet been beaten.’

‘It will be a good contest then. World Shaker has never lost a fight either.’ Salim smiled at his son, but as soon as Khurram had left his smile faded. ‘Khusrau has deliberately contrived this contest. I’m certain of it. He hopes to defeat me before all the court.’