Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (12 page)

There was also something else – twenty large iron bars. Akbar saw the many curious glances directed towards them. As he mounted the platform and approached the scales, the drummers ceased their rhythmic thumping and a trumpeter sounded a single sharp blast. At this signal, attendants picked up the bars, carried them over to the scales and stacked them on one of the giant saucers, which quickly dipped to the ground beneath the weight.

Since Adham Khan’s death nearly two years ago, he had spent much time reflecting on how and why he had failed to foresee Adham Khan’s treachery and how he could avoid new conspiracies among his nobles. He knew that one reason for his reluctance to suspect Adham Khan and Maham Anga had been their closeness to him since childhood. With Bairam Khan dead there was no one left in a similar position, and he would not let anyone get so close in future, or trust anyone so completely. He must rely on his own inner resources. But even if Adham Khan’s and Maham Anga’s intimate ties to him partly excused his blindness towards their machinations, he had also been complacent, so confident in his power and position that he thought nobody would challenge them.

A solution as to how he might minimise the chances of future unrest had come to him almost by accident as one of his
qorchis
read to him from his grandfather’s memoirs. Among all Babur’s wise words, two passages in particular had caught his attention: ‘War and booty keep men true’ and ‘Be generous to your supporters. If they know they have more to gain from you than from anyone else they will stay loyal.’ After all, if anyone had understood how to survive it had been Babur, and he could learn from him. That was why he had summoned his nobles here today – to tell them that very soon he would be launching wars of conquest that would fill the imperial treasuries to overflowing with gold and jewels, and also to give them a taste of the rewards that were to come. And, thanks to Gulbadan who had witnessed it during the early days of his father’s reign and suggested it, he had found exactly the right occasion for
his show of magnificence and ambition – a weighing ceremony. To his great satisfaction, a search of the Agra treasure vaults had produced the very scales Humayun, as a young emperor himself, had had made. Akbar allowed himself a brief smile, then raised his hands for silence.

‘Like my father before me I have decided to revive the ancient custom of the rulers of Hindustan of being publicly weighed against precious stuffs. I shall hold this ceremony twice a year – on my lunar birthday, as today, and again on my solar birthday. After the weighing, the treasure will be distributed amongst those invited – as you have been today – to witness it. To show my special regard for you, I wish on this first occasion to give you more than the mere equivalent of my bodyweight. These iron bars weigh twice as much as I.’ Akbar waited a moment to allow his words to sink in, then sat down cross-legged on the saucer next to the pile of iron.

Akbar’s attendants at once began to load the other saucer, beginning with the most precious objects. Ten chests of gems had been stacked high before the saucer bearing Humayun began to rise slowly and shudderingly from the ground. The silence was intense and Akbar sensed every eye fixed upon him, every mind calculating what his individual share of the spoils might be. The Moghuls had come a long way, he reflected, as the jewels were replaced by the gold and silver chains and then by the sacks of gold. In former days, the moment for reward had come immediately after battle with the bloodied, still warm bodies of the Moghuls’ foes as witnesses. Each clan chieftain had presented his shield to be piled with booty which he then dragged off to share with his men. But those times, with their origins in the Moghuls’ nomadic past, were over. He was Emperor of Hindustan and must provide his followers with more rewards, not just for winning new territories by their feats in battle but also for retaining them through good government.

The distribution of the rich gifts took place as soon as the weighing was over. With the help of his comptroller of the household, Jauhar, Akbar had calculated what each man should receive and Jauhar had carefully recorded his wishes in his ledger. Akbar watched
as Jauhar called out name after name and his nobles, commanders and allies stepped up to claim their allotted share of money and jewels and of soft silks and pashmina wools for their wives and concubines, and even gifts for their children: almonds wrapped in gold leaf, toy Moghul soldiers – horsemen, archers and musketeers – and female dolls with tiny silver earrings, necklaces and bangles. Akbar had also ordered some treasure to be reserved and sent to governors and officials of distant provinces, and for gifts of grain, rice and oil to be distributed to the granaries of the towns and cities of the empire so that even the ordinary people should share in his generosity.

That night, rosewater bubbled from the fountains in the courtyard where, seated on a golden chair on a velvet-draped dais, Akbar watched his guests feasting on the best his accomplished cooks could provide: whole sheep roasted on spits over fires of applewood, ducks and partridges stuffed with dried fruits and nuts and simmered in copper pots of saffron-spiced butter sauce, and chickens marinated in yoghourt and spices before being baked in the searing heat of the
tandoor
– the portable clay oven used by a Moghul army on the march and brought to Hindustan in Babur’s time. As an extra touch of opulence, he had ordered loose gemstones to be scattered round the edges of the mounds of
zard birinj
– rice mixed with butter, raisins, dried cherries, almonds, pistachios, ginger and cinnamon – that were to be served to accompany the rich meats. He had even commanded that fragrant musk-melons and sweet-juiced grapes be packed in ice and sent down through the Khyber Pass from Kabul. The fruit had arrived two days ago in excellent condition.

Akbar waited until most had finished and were wiping their lips before rising from his chair. Now was the moment to tell them what he was planning. As he saw all the flushed, upturned faces turned towards him, a confidence possessed him that they would follow him anywhere.

‘There is something I wish to say to you. It is forty years since my grandfather Babur conquered Hindustan for the Moghuls. An early death denied him the chance to expand his territories, just as
it also denied my own father that opportunity. But I am young and the warrior blood of my ancestors beats strongly in my veins. It tells me my destiny is to forge an empire that will endure – an empire that cannot be lost by a single battle but will be the wonder of the world for centuries to come.

‘The way to achieve that is through conquest. Today I conferred on you some of the wealth of our empire, but it was only a tiny fraction of the gold and glory I will give you in the years to come as, with your help, I push back the boundaries of the Moghul empire. My dominions will stretch from east to west, from sea to sea. Southwards, it will extend beyond the great plateau of the Deccan to the diamond mines of Golconda, the brilliant gems from which will blaze from my throne and adorn your wives and concubines. These are not idle boasts. Here, before you all, I pledge to vanquish new lands – not just those of petty chiefs along our borders who think they can defy us, but the rulers of rich and mighty kingdoms. If they will bend their proud necks to Moghul domination they will find mercy, honour and a share in our greatness. But if they resist, my armies will crush the bones of their soldiers to dust and smash their palaces and fortresses to ruins.

‘So I say, prepare for war! The first who will feel our power is Rana Udai Singh of Mewar, son of Rana Sanga whom my grandfather Babur defeated forty years ago and who is just as treacherous. The ranas of Mewar claim to be the greatest of all the Rajputs. While many other Rajput princes long ago declared themselves to be my loyal vassals, Udai Singh has equivocated, seeking special privileges and finding reasons not to come to court. Now he is openly showing his hostility. His warriors recently attacked a caravan of Moghul merchants making for the coast of Gujarat. In reply to my demand for compensation Udai Singh has returned an insulting message: “You are the offspring of horse-thieves from the barbarian north while our descent is from the god Rama and through him the sun, moon and fire. You have no authority over me.”

‘He will learn that I have. In three months’ time, when we have completed our preparations, I will ride at the head of my armies to punish him and you here tonight will play your glorious part!’ As
a great cheer enveloped him, Akbar raised his emerald-inlaid jade drinking cup. ‘To victory!’

Akbar narrowed his eyes against the sun as, standing with Ahmed Khan on a balcony of the Agra fort eight weeks later, he watched a troop of cavalry galloping in single file along the dry mud bank of the Jumna river. A row of twenty spears had been stuck into the ground at five-yard intervals. As each rider approached, without lessening his breakneck pace he expertly swerved his horse between them. Reaching the last of the spears and still retaining perfect balance and control, each man rose in his stirrups to hurl his steel-tipped lance at a straw target set up some ten yards ahead. Every man hit his target spot on.

Akbar grunted. ‘Impressive. How soon can the army be ready to ride out, d’you think?’

‘Within another month, as we planned – perhaps sooner, although some of our gunners need further training in loading the new large cannon with stronger barrels our Turkish armourers have produced in our foundries. We’re also still waiting for those supplies of extra muskets we ordered from the skilled gunsmiths of Lahore. To increase their range they can be loaded with at least twice as much gunpowder as our existing ones – even to the muzzle, I’m told – without risk of bursting. When we have them we will have the best equipped as well as the largest army within thousands of miles, stonger even than the Persian shah’s.’

While a soldier yanked the line of spears from the mud, the riders re-formed. Now their task was to gallop up to a row of clay pots lying on their sides and without losing pace to scoop one up on their spear-tip. This time the performance wasn’t so perfect. One rider misjudged the distance, embedding his spear in the mud and somersaulting from the saddle to land painfully on the hard-baked ground.

Akbar smiled. He too had bruises. He was training every day now, firing shot after shot from his musket and practising with sword, flail and battleaxe until they felt like living extensions of his own body.
He was also joining in wrestling bouts with his officers. At first they had treated him with too much respect, reluctant to fling their emperor into the dust, but his skill and speed and the challenges he had roared at them had quickly conquered such inhibitions.

He glanced up at the rapidly crimsoning sky. In another half-hour it would be growing dark. ‘Ahmed Khan, I would like to play polo with those men down on the riverbank.’

‘But the light is fading.’

‘Wait and see.’

Half an hour later, dressed in simple tunic and trousers and mounted on a small, muscular chestnut horse with white fetlocks, Akbar trotted out of the fort, across the parade ground and down to the riverbank. Behind him followed attendants, some carrying
palas
– wooden balls made from dark timber – and polo sticks while four staggered under the weight of a brazier of glowing charcoals supported on two wooden poles. As he reached the bank, Akbar kicked his horse into a canter and rode up to the horsemen. Seeing their emperor, they prepared to dismount and make their salutations.

‘No. Stay in the saddle. I want you to take part in an experiment,’ Akbar said.

As inky purple shadows stole over the river, he ordered his attendants to distribute the polo sticks, mark out goals with torches on either side and finally place one of the wooden balls in the brazier. Almost at once the ball began to smoulder, but even after four or five minutes it hadn’t burst into flames. Akbar smiled. So the story about Timur was true. On several evenings since announcing his intention to go to war, he had asked his
qorchi
to read him accounts of Timur’s exploits in case there was anything he could learn from his great ancestor. One description had diverted him from thoughts of strategy to those of sport. It told how, by chance, Timur had discovered that the hard timber of the wormwood tree smouldered for many hours. He had ordered his men to play polo through the night with glowing balls of wormwood to harden and prepare them for battle. Ever since, Akbar had been eager to try it for himself.

‘Throw the ball on the ground,’ he ordered. As one of his attendants lifted the ball from the brazier with a pair of long, curved tongs,
Akbar kicked his horse forward and took a swing at the glowing sphere. ‘Let’s play,’ he yelled. Soon the dark riverbank echoed to the beat of hooves and the shouts of laughing men, and the game lasted until the moon had risen high, turning the Jumna’s muddy waters to liquid silver.

Later that night, as a
hakim
massaged his stiffening muscles with warm oil, Akbar again thought about Timur and why he had never once been defeated. He had favoured the shock attack, the hit-and-run raid. That was how he had smashed his way across Asia, allowing no physical or human obstacle, however mighty, to blunt his impetus. Crossing the frozen Hindu Kush he had had himself lowered down a sheer cliff of ice and brushed off attacks by cannibal tribes as easily as if they’d been fleas to be shaken from his fur-lined robes.