‘I am truly glad you did, but is it really in my father’s character to allow me the power I crave? Isn’t he more like the male tiger who consumes his own young if they should seem to threaten his authority?’
‘And what about you, Salim? Can’t you admit that you have been foolish and headstrong at times? You were the one to behave like a young male animal when you made love to his concubine Anarkali.’
‘I was thoughtless. . I had no concern for the consequences of my lust, only for the lust itself. I admit I was wrong. . I cost Anarkali her life, and yes, on that occasion I strained my father’s patience.’
‘That is an understatement. Your father is a great man, as powerful a warrior as his ancestors Timur and Genghis Khan and a more tolerant, wiser ruler than either. I know that the parents and the children of great men often view them differently from others. However, you showed him no respect as a parent, as a man or as an emperor. You undermined the dignity that is so important to his position. A less forgiving man — one less understanding of his son’s youthful lust — would have had you executed like Anarkali.’
‘I know that, and I am grateful. But many other times my father has slighted me and caused me to lose face before the whole court by his dismissive treatment of me.’
‘You brought him pain through your inability to control your other appetites — not just your lust. Like your half-brothers you’ve staggered around the court helplessly drunk or glassy-faced with opium. Your father is a proud man and very conscious of his imperial dignity. He feels your behaviour has humiliated him as well as you in the eyes of the court.’
‘But I’ve attempted to reform my habits, unlike Daniyal — or Murad when he was alive.’
‘And your father gives you credit for it.’
‘Does he? And what about Abul Fazl?’
‘He thinks you tried to punish him by killing his best friend but he insists he will set the ties of blood above those of friendship — and I believe he will try. Indeed, he knows he must do so. With Murad dead and Daniyal still soaked in alcohol, you and in due course your sons must be the future of the dynasty.’
A wave of relief swept through Salim. He had been right in his analysis of his father. ‘So he recognises that he needs me?’
‘Yes, and you should recognise that you need him more. He could crush your little rebellion if he wanted to. Even if he simply publicly disowned and disinherited you, you would find it difficult to retain your authority or your followers. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Salim said nothing. His grandmother was right. His own position was not as strong as he liked to pretend. His plan to force his father’s hand to give him power was going nowhere. The treasury of Allahabad was emptying fast. He would need to find more money soon if his forces were not to begin to melt away. He was isolated from the court and the nobles there, many of whom he would have to win over if he were to succeed his father. He wished to see his sons, who would have heard only their grandfather’s views about his rebellion. Most important, he knew that latterly at least there had been faults on both sides in his arguments with his father. But it hurt his pride to admit it. Finally he simply said, ‘Yes.’
‘And you agree to be reconciled?’
‘Yes. . provided that I am not humiliated in the process.’
‘You will not be. I give you my word. Your father has agreed to allow me the responsibility of organising the ceremony before the court.’
‘Then I am content.’
‘When the trumpets sound you will enter the durbar hall through the right-hand door,’ said Hamida. Salim had accompanied her back from Allahabad to within a day’s ride from Agra, which his father had recently restored as his capital. Then he had encamped while Hamida had gone on alone to the Agra fort to tell Akbar of his son’s agreement to their reconciliation and to put in hand the detailed arrangements for the ceremony.
‘And you are sure that everyone will act according to your guidance?’
‘Yes. Just as I am sure that you will. Now ready yourself. I must take my place behind the jali screen.’ With a final reassuring smile and a pat on his shoulder, Hamida left the room. He had only time to look at himself briefly in the mirror and adjust the knotting of his green silk sash before the trumpets sounded. Heart thumping, he made his way towards the doors which two tall green-turbaned guards threw open for him. As he entered, he saw his father seated on his high-backed gilded throne, surrounded by his courtiers. He was dressed completely in scarlet brocade, save for his white sash and his white ceremonial turban with its two peacock’s feathers held in place by four large rubies. His grandfather’s sword Alamgir was at his side, and as Salim came nearer he saw that his father was wearing their ancestor Timur’s ring with its snarling tiger.
When Salim was within a few feet of his father and preparing to make his low obeisance, Akbar suddenly rose and stepped down from his throne to embrace him. After some moments, he released him and turned to his courtiers.
‘I call upon you to witness that my beloved elder son and I are reconciled. All our past disagreements are forgotten. See, I present him with this my ceremonial turban as a token of our reunion. Henceforth whoever acts against one of us will need to fear both.’ As he spoke, Akbar removed his turban and placed it on his son’s head.
Tears welled in Salim’s eyes. ‘I promise to honour you in all ways and to be loyal in my obedience to your every command.’
However, a quarter of an hour later, as Salim left the audience chamber, some of the euphoria had already begun to dissipate within him. Had his father’s embrace been any more than an empty piece of theatre? Could he recall any warmth in Akbar’s tone of voice or facial expression as he had gone on to recount the initial duties, none of great significance, which Salim would be required to perform on his behalf? Would it all really be so simple?
Chapter 28
‘Ride hard, Khusrau. You can beat him,’ Salim shouted across the parade ground below the Agra fort. His eldest son, mounted on an agile black pony, was swerving the animal in and out of a series of spears thrust into the hard ground. He was just behind another young man on a roan horse racing through a parallel set of spears to his left. Both were well clear of a third youth on Khusrau’s right, who had already failed to negotiate one pair of spears and had to wheel his pony to try again. Khusrau had just succeeded in getting his pony’s neck ahead when a minute later he crossed the finishing line, head bent low and dust billowing in his wake.
How his son had changed over the two years that Salim had spent at Allahabad and elsewhere, away from Akbar’s court. When he had left, Khusrau had still been a boy. Now he was a young man of seventeen. Salim regretted more than ever that he had departed in such total secrecy that he had not felt able to take even Khusrau or Parvez with him without risking jeopardising his plans. It had been even less possible to contemplate taking young Khurram, now nearly thirteen. Since his birth he had spent most of his days with his grandfather and usually slept in Akbar’s apartments at night. Even now they were standing together ten yards away. Both were vigorously applauding Khusrau, who had dismounted and was striding lithe and full of youthful strength towards Akbar who was holding a riding crop with a jewel-encrusted handle ready to present to his eldest grandson as his prize for his victory.
What a picture of familial harmony it looked, thought Salim. He had been absent from the family group for too long. Walking quickly, he reached his father and his two sons just as Khusrau took the riding crop from Akbar’s outstretched hands. ‘Well done, Khusrau. You have the same skill as a horseman that I had in my youth,’ Akbar was saying. Then, after what Salim thought was a meaningful glance at him, he continued, ‘I pray that you retain it, together with those other fine attributes that your tutors tell me you possess. Never let them be fuddled by debilitating addictions or lusts as other members of our family have.’