Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (34 page)

‘I have summoned you here to the great mosque in Fatehpur Sikri to hear an important pronouncement.’

Dressed in cloth of gold and with three nodding white egrets feathers secured to his turban by a ruby clasp, Akbar gazed around at the assembled mullahs, courtiers and commanders. Salim, standing amongst them, glanced up at the small women’s gallery concealed from public view by a carved
jali
where he knew that Hamida and Gulbadan were watching and listening. Did they have any idea what Akbar was going to say? He didn’t. For the past three days since Akbar had returned from his hunting expedition the court had been awash with rumours. Akbar had shut himself away in his private quarters, seeing only Abul Fazl and, on two occasions, Shaikh Mubarak. Some even claimed that Akbar was about to declare himself a Christian.

‘Several days ago, in his infinite goodness God spoke to me and revealed his heart. He said that he had chosen me because, like other prophets before me, I cannot read and my mind therefore remains open to hearing his voice in all its strength and purity. He told me that a true ruler must not leave the conduct of divine worship to others but take this great responsibility upon their own shoulders. Today is Friday, our day of prayer. In past times I would have asked one of our learned mullahs to mount the pulpit to lead us in our worship and to recite the
khutba
. But because of what God is asking of me, I must fulfil that task in front of you all.’

To gasps of surprise Akbar turned and climbed the steep carved rosewood stairs leading up to the marble pulpit. Then in his deep, resonating voice he began to recite, his voice building to a climax as the final words rang out, ‘Blessed be His Majesty!
Allah Akbar!
’

Salim’s head jerked back with surprise.
Allah Akbar
meant ‘God is great,’ but his father’s words could also mean ‘Akbar is God’. Was his father claiming some sort of divinity? All around him he heard a surprised buzz of conversation. But looking up again he saw his father coolly observing the effect of his ambiguous cry. He raised his hands for silence, which fell instantly. ‘I have commanded my most trusted spiritual adviser Shaikh Mubarak to draw up a document that I will require every mullah in my empire to sign, which states that in any question of religious interpretation I – not they – am the final arbiter.’

Salim saw Shaikh Ahmad and the other members of the
ulama
exchange shocked glances as they took in the full import of their emperor’s words – that he stood higher in the knowledge of God than any mullah. Just like that King of England, Akbar was claiming for himself not only the role of head of state but of the head of religion within his empire. Akbar was smiling a little and Salim felt a new awe for the father whom with every passing day he felt little closer to understanding.

‘M
ajesty, the Jesuit father Antonio Monserrate requests an urgent audience with you.’

Akbar looked up from the design of a new pavilion drawn by Tuhin Das that he had been studying with Abul Fazl, and Salim saw annoyance cross his father’s face. The talk of the court was that the Jesuits were growing presumptuous and arrogant. Whatever Akbar allowed them to do – from processing through the streets of Fatehpur Sikri behind a giant wooden cross with candles in their hands on their saints’ days, to building chapels, to aggressively seeking converts – never seemed to satisfy them. They had even petitioned Akbar to appoint Father Antonio as one of the tutors to his son Murad and from courtesy he had agreed.

‘What does he want?’

‘He would not say, Majesty, only that it was a matter of great urgency.’

‘Very well. I’ll receive him here in my private apartments.’

As always, Salim was surprised by his father’s tolerance. None of his subjects, however mighty, would dare importune the emperor so frequently. He waited to see whether his father would dismiss him and was pleased when Akbar signalled to him to stay.

The Jesuit entered, bowed briefly then without waiting for Akbar to say anything burst out, ‘Majesty, I heard something today that I
found hard to believe. Your mullah Shaikh Mubarak says that you intend to inaugurate a new religion.’

‘What you heard was the truth. At the next Friday prayers I will announce to my subjects the introduction within my empire of the
Din-i-Ilahi
– the “Religion of God”.’

‘What is this blasphemy!’ Father Antonio’s already bulbous eyes looked about to pop from his skull.

‘Take care, Jesuit. You have received nothing but patience and indulgence at my court. In return what have you preached but narrow intolerance? Nothing you have said has convinced me that your Catholic church has anything particular to commend it. Indeed, no single religion seems to me to eclipse all others in truth or divinity – not even my own Muslim faith. That is why I have decided to fuse what is best in all the different religions – Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Christian and Muslim – into a new faith.’

‘And where does God sit in your structure – at your right hand, I presume, or will you allow him even that?’ Father Antonio was almost choking with indignation.

‘I am the focus of the
Din-i-Ilahi
as God’s chosen representative, his shadow upon the earth,’ Akbar said calmly but with a glint in his eye. ‘I do not intend to supplant God – that would indeed be blasphemy.’

‘If you persist in this misguided folly I and my fellow priests must withdraw from your court. I regret that I can no longer act as a tutor to Prince Murad.’

‘Leave if that is your wish. Your closed mind disappoints me. Indeed it makes me question whether I wish men such as yourselves to have even a toehold in my empire. Do not provoke me further if you wish your European adherents to retain their trading settlements.’

‘You have rejected the light and you will answer for it to one greater even than you think yourself.’ Father Antonio spoke with real venom in his tone. Then he gave a slight bow, turned and walked swiftly away through the open double doors past Akbar’s green-turbaned bodyguards.

Salim saw his father and Abul Fazl exchange amused smiles. Clearly they had anticipated the priest’s reactions. His own mind
burned with questions and for once he did not lack the courage to voice them. ‘Why have you created this religion, Father? Won’t it anger the
ulama
?’ he asked.

It was Abul Fazl who answered. ‘Let the
ulama
think what they will. It is a natural progression. His Majesty is already, of course, the head of the Muslim faith within his empire but his subjects practise many religions. By creating the new faith, the
Din-i-Ilahi
, which will be open to all and calls upon no one to renounce his existing faith, His Majesty will become accepted by all his people as one of them – their rightful sovereign – and no longer be regarded like his grandfather and father as a foreign invader. Central to the ritual is the sun as the symbol of divinity. The
Din-i-Ilahi
will embrace the Hindu principles of reincarnation and that unification with the divine is the ultimate aim of the believer. Above all, the
Din-i-llahi
will teach men kindness, compassion, tolerance and respect for all living things. In so doing it will help them seek for spiritual truth but it will also secure the Moghul dynasty.’

Content to leave Abul Fazl to deal with Salim’s question, Akbar had already turned back to Tuhin Das’s drawing and didn’t see his son’s slight frown as he contemplated Abul Fazl’s words. To Salim it seemed a step too far. Surely this new ‘Divine Faith’ could alienate people just as easily as it could reconcile them to their Moghul rulers?

‘Majesty, an imperial post rider who passed by on his way to Fatehpur Sikri reports that the widow of a village headman is to be burned alive on his funeral pyre at sunset. You asked to be informed of all such incidents immediately.’

‘Where is this happening?’

‘In a village ten miles north of here.’

‘I have given explicit orders that I will not tolerate this barbarous practice of
sati
. How dare they defy me? I will go there myself. Have my horse saddled at once and detail a detachment of my bodyguards to accompany me.’

Salim had seldom seen his father so openly angry. Without waiting
for attendants to help him he was already pulling off his silk tunic ready to change into riding clothes.

‘Come with me, Salim. It will be a valuable lesson. I allow my Hindu subjects complete freedom of worship except in this one thing. You know what
sati
is, of course, don’t you? They call these women “flaming torches of love and fellowship” but they are just victims, often coerced to die with their husbands by relatives out of some distorted perception of family honour.’ Akbar’s eyes were stern. ‘I thank God that our people have never practised such a thing. For the Moghuls, death on the battlefield is the most honourable thing for a man. Which of us would not, in his heart, choose to die in battle, rather than ingloriously in our beds? But which of us would find similar honour in the idea of our women committing suicide because we were no more? Don’t you agree, Salim?’ Akbar’s attendants were now dressing him in a tunic and pantaloons and fastening a green brocade sash round his still muscular waist.

Salim nodded. What he didn’t tell his father was how tales of
sati
victims both repelled and fascinated him. Death came so randomly – a friend of his own age had recently caught the spotted fever and died within two days. Mortality was hard to comprehend, especially when you were young. Perhaps that was why it held such a morbid allure. Despite himself, he always listened with half-guilty curiosity to descriptions of the women’s screams rising above the crackling of the blazing pyre and even of victims trying frantically to escape, hair and clothes already alight, only to be thrown back by their husbands’ relatives.

‘Quickly, Salim. The sooner we get there the better chance we have of halting this crime.’

Galloping by his father’s side out of Fatehpur Sikri, bodyguards in their green tunics behind them and four heralds with silver trumpets riding ahead to clear the way, Salim felt proud that his father had chosen him to accompany him, as well as a visceral thrill at the adventure ahead.

It was a hot afternoon in late March and puffs of pale dust rose from the hard-baked ground beneath the horses’ hooves. Squinting up into the clear, deep blue sky, Salim saw the sun was still high. If
the funeral was to take place at sunset they had time, though Akbar showed no sign of slackening the pace. His chestnut stallion beneath its gold-embroidered saddle cloth was foamy with sweat and Salim saw that the coat of his own bay mare was mottled with it. Perhaps this was a little how it felt to ride into battle – something he had never done but longed for.

They were climbing now as they followed a track over land parched a deep gold. Ahead it narrowed, winding up to the top of a steep, flat-topped hill on which Salim glimpsed a collection of simple dwellings. Beyond, a column of brown smoke was rising almost vertically into the air.

He heard Akbar shout, ‘They’ve been warned of our coming and have fired the pyre. They’ll pay for this.’ Glancing at him, Salim saw his father’s strong-jawed face tauten with rage and frustration. As they urged their blowing horses towards the top of the hill, Akbar shouted to his men, ‘Quickly. No time to lose!’

Reaching the summit, Salim saw that they were on a plateau. To the left was a cluster of mud-brick huts around a well and on the right a larger house, also single-storeyed but enclosed by a low wall – probably the headman’s dwelling. No one was there except for two young children fast asleep on a string
charpoy
beneath a neem tree and near them a puppy which regarded the new arrivals without interest through half-closed eyes. But ahead, three or four hundred yards away, Salim made out through a tangle of spiny bushes a crowd of people in dun-coloured clothes. Beyond them rose the plume of smoke, now thicker and darker, and orange flames flickered.

‘Come on!’ Akbar shouted, kicking his stallion hard. In a matter of moments they burst through the bushes into a clearing where a tall stack of brushwood was already well alight around the edges. On top of the pyre and not itself yet burning was a body wrapped in white muslin. Two men were leaning forward with a jar of what looked like oil or
ghee
which they were throwing over the corpse, the viscous yellow liquid arcing through the air and hissing as drops fell into the flames. At that moment the corpse’s clothes caught light and Salim caught the sweet stench of flesh starting to burn. Galloping to within ten feet of the pyre, Akbar wheeled his horse to a standstill.
The crowd had been so intent on what was happening that they were slow to react.

‘Surround the pyre,’ Akbar shouted to his guards. Riding right up to the crowd, he demanded, ‘Who is your leader?’ He spoke in Hindi, the local language, in which he was as fluent as he was in Persian, the language of the court.

‘I am,’ replied one of the men who had been pouring the oil. ‘We are cremating the body of my father, who was headman of this village. I am his eldest son, Sanjeev.’