The Twentieth Wife (22 page)

Disappointed and weary to the bone, Salim with his army reached the banks of the Yamuna river at Agra. His plans had failed. Akbar would hear of this, and he would be furious. The Emperor might even be on his way back from the Deccan.

Salim rubbed at his temples tiredly. Again he had failed, as he seemed to fail at everything he tried. Somehow the governor of Agra had known he was coming. And if he knew, the Emperor must know too. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with his father. He had to leave Agra and go somewhere safe. He watched the river flow past, and a thought struck him. He could go to his estates at Allahabad and plan his next course of action from there. Right now, he could not think; he just needed to rest. Salim called Mahabat Khan and commanded a barge to carry him down the Yamuna to Allahabad. The army was to follow by land.

As Salim’s barge departed down the river, one man stood thoughtfully in the gathering dusk, watching as the barge was swallowed up in the darkness.

Ali Quli turned and walked away slowly.

Faced by the imperial army in Agra, he had realized the magnitude of the folly he was about to commit if he betrayed his Emperor. He could not follow the prince to Allahabad. It was not cowardly of him to desert Salim at this time, merely prudent. And the Emperor was still much stronger than the prince. It was simply a matter of choosing the right leader, and he chose the Emperor. He had no intention of spending his entire life following the prince in his recklessness.

While Salim’s army was preparing for the march to Allahabad,
Ali Quli slipped unnoticed into the city and went to his father-in-law’s house. A week later, he sent a message to Mehrunnisa at Lahore, commanding her presence at Agra.

•   •   •

A
KBAR PACED HIS
apartments, hands clasped behind his back, an angry flush on his face. He reached the end of the room and turned abruptly, his silken sash flying out around him.

The Emperor stalked up to the silent figure. “We cannot agree to the prince’s terms.” His voice shook with rage.

Khwaja Jahan cringed. “Your Majesty, the prince is truly repentant. He wishes for a reconciliation.”

Akbar glared at Salim’s emissary. “If he wanted our forgiveness, he would not put conditions on our clemency. Why has he come with a large army to beg our pardon? He must disband his army and come to us with only a few attendants.” Akbar paused and said, “Take this message back to him. We shall see him alone, without his army. And we will not grant immunity to his followers.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Khwaja Jahan bowed. He backed away slowly.

Akbar spoke again, “Tell the prince that he must obey our orders. If he cannot do so, he can return to Allahabad. We will not grant him permission to wait on us.”

Khwaja Jahan bowed again and let himself out of the room.

When the door shut behind him, Akbar sat down heavily and ran his fingers through his hair. Why was Salim rebelling against him? Salim had tried to capture the royal treasury at Agra, and he might well have succeeded if Akbar had not had an efficient spy system. Upon hearing of Salim’s march from Ajmer, the Emperor had warned Qulich Khan. Now his errant son had set up court at Allahabad. The news was that he was playing king, granting
jagirs
to his followers and issuing
farmans
and titles to his loyal supporters.

The Emperor had to come rushing back from the Deccan from his siege on the fort of Asir. Fortunately, the fort had fallen just before
news arrived of Salim’s duplicity. So Akbar had sent two runners to Agra and followed almost at their heels, winding up his affairs in a hurry and leaving Abul Fazl to carry on the rest of the campaign.

After six months of negotiations with Salim’s emissary, Khwaja Jahan, Akbar had finally agreed to meet with his son. But Salim had imprudently come to Agra with an army of seventy thousand cavalry and infantry, as if he were on campaign.

Akbar stared unseeingly out of the window. After he had spent so many years carefully nurturing his son, Salim had rebelled— and all this, for the throne of the empire.

The Emperor was still in his apartments when news was brought to him of his son’s response. The prince had decided to return to Allahabad. He did not wish to disband his army.

Akbar dismissed the messenger with a frown. Something would have to be done about Salim. Who was the best person to advise him?

His brow cleared. Abul Fazl, of course. Apart from his duties as head chancellor, Fazl had also been tutor to the royal princes. Perhaps he could talk some sense into his son. The Emperor called for the royal scribes. An imperial
farman
was sent posthaste, commanding Fazl’s presence at court.

•   •   •

“T
HE
E
MPEROR HAS
called for Abul Fazl, your Highness,” Mahabat Khan said.

Salim looked at his courtier in dismay. “Are you sure?”

Mahabat nodded. “The runner was spending the night at a wine house and talked too much. One of our men heard the news.”

Salim slumped down on the cushions of his throne. He had ordered a black slate throne carved at Allahabad and called himself Sultan Salim Shah in defiance of his father’s command to disband his army and come to him unarmed.

Many months had passed since that mad dash to Agra to capture the treasury, a few more after that fateful attempt at reconciliation
with Akbar. Now, the Emperor was going to call upon Fazl. Why Fazl? What good would that do? Abul Fazl had never liked him, but he was one of the Emperor’s closest confidantes, the man to whom he had entrusted the care of his sons. He had sent Fazl to the Deccan to look after Murad, who had died soon after his arrival. Now he wanted to bring him back to attend to another son. Akbar was devoted to Abul Fazl, even more so since he had finished the
Akbarnama,
bestowing great honors on him for that work. But Akbar had not read three volumes of the
Akbarnama.
He had merely looked at them with awe.

This great Mughal Emperor was illiterate; he could neither read nor write. However, that had not stopped Akbar from cultivating the acquaintance of the most learned and cultured poets, authors, musicians, and architects of the time—relying solely on his remarkable memory during conversations with them.

Salim sighed. So much . . . the Emperor always did so much with his time. He slept but little, only four hours every night, and each day was filled with state duties, time at the harem, time with the court musicians and painters and poets. And he, Salim, found it hard to even run his little kingdom within the empire.

“Why has the Emperor called for Fazl?” he asked.

“To resolve this dispute between yourself and his Majesty, no doubt,” Mahabat replied.

“Abul Fazl will only make matters worse. He has never been my friend. He has always spoken against me to the Emperor,” Salim said. “If he comes to court, I shall not be able to see my dear father again. The Emperor will never allow me to wait on him.”

A short silence followed. Mahabat, Koka, Abdullah, and Sharif looked at one another significantly. Fazl’s arrival at court would be disastrous for them, too. They were already facing charges of sedition, and the Emperor’s army was itching to lay hands on them. Fazl might convince Akbar to forgive Salim, but their own heads lay
on very uneasy shoulders; unfortunately they could claim no kinship to the Emperor.

“What shall I do?” Salim asked. “We can return to Agra, and I shall beg forgiveness from his Majesty.”

“No, your Highness,” Sharif said firmly. “We have to let some time pass before you return. Right now . . . ,” he hesitated, “the Emperor is very upset and will not be reasonable.”

“But there is no chance that he will relent before Fazl gets here. And that man will only make matters worse,” Salim said again. He knew why a reconciliation with Akbar was not prudent right now for his courtiers. But he would protect them from his father’s wrath. They had thrown in their lot with him; he could do no less. However, Fazl would not help. This Salim firmly believed. He would only be a disruptive influence. What was the alternative?

“Then he must not go to Agra,” Koka said in his slow manner, his pasty face lit by cunning.

Salim looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean? He has been commanded by the Emperor. He will return to Agra from the Deccan.”

“True. But the journey from the Deccan is very . . . ,” Koka hesitated delicately, “shall we say, hazardous, fraught with danger? Who knows,” he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “Fazl may never complete the trip.”

Salim stared at him, his pulse racing. Did he dare do what Koka was suggesting? It would be dangerous; he was already in trouble with Akbar. But it seemed he had no other options. It was this or nothing else. The risk that Fazl would reach Agra safely and further poison his father’s ear, and perhaps convince him to leave the throne to Daniyal, was too great. He looked around quickly; they were alone in the reception hall. All the attendants had been dismissed.

Nevertheless, he lowered his voice and leaned toward his men.
“You are right. After all, we live in dangerous times. Robbers and thieves infest our highways. A little accident, a small mishap, and, who knows?” He spread his hands.

The five men smiled at one another.

“Who is the best person for the . . . ah . . . job?”

“Bir Singh Deo, your Highness,” Mahabat replied promptly.

“The Bundela Rajput chieftain from Orchha?” Salim frowned. “Isn’t he in revolt against the empire?”

“Yes, but Bir Singh is a mercenary. If we make it worth his while, he will undertake any job for us. Besides, it is well known that you are at odds with the Emperor, and Bir Singh likes to fight the interests of the empire.”

“If you think he is the right person—,” Salim began, reluctantly.

“He is, your Highness,” Abdullah cut in. “No shadow of suspicion should fall upon you, and therefore the . . . ah . . . assassin must be someone unconnected to your court.”

Salim rubbed his chin. “You are right. Fazl is a minister of state, and the Emperor will not take his death lightly,. He will surely hunt down his killer.” He looked up. “Can we trust Bir Singh? What if he betrays us?”

Mahabat smiled; it was actually more of a grimace. “He cannot. Even if the Emperor forgives him for this deed, there are others for which he is equally guilty. He knows he cannot escape with his life. He will go back into hiding in Orchha. After all, the Bundelas have lived there for years, successfully avoiding the imperial forces.”

Salim stared at his courtiers. There was no turning back now from this decision. All he had done so far paled in comparison to this command of his, but it was essential.

“Send for Bir Singh. There is no time to be lost.”

•   •   •

A
BUL
F
AZL
WAS
informed of the plot to kill him, but he made no change in his route. His reasoning was simple: Akbar had commanded
his presence posthaste. So he increased the number of his bodyguards and set out. Fazl and his men were attacked three times and fought off their assailants. A fourth time, when Fazl was passing through the village of Sur, the Bundelas set upon him and his men again. Heavy fighting ensued. Fazl managed to stave off the assassins but, injured and bleeding, was forced to lie down under a tree to rest. There, the Bundela chief found him, conscious but in great pain, and sliced off his head.

My intention . . . is to point out that no evil fortune is greater than when a son, through the impropriety of his conduct and his unapproved methods of behavior . . . becomes contumacious and rebellious to his father, without cause or reason . . .

—A. Rogers, trans., and H. Beveridge, ed.,
The Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri

T
HE
E
MPEROR SAT MOTIONLESS IN
his darkened apartments, silken curtains drawn across the windows. Tears ran down his cheeks, soaking into the brocade collar of his
qaba.

Akbar closed his eyes and leaned back on the velvet bolster. He had been looking forward to Fazl’s arrival. Instead, two runners had brought him news of his death. Akbar had lost a dear and valued friend in Abul Fazl. But more than that, it seemed as though his son had had a hand in the murder. Could it be possible? Had Salim planned Fazl’s death?

Akbar raised a trembling hand and wiped his tears. His soldiers had found Fazl’s beheaded body under a tree. The minister was not even allowed to die with dignity. Now his spies told him that the head had been sent to Salim. How could his son cold-heartedly murder his father’s friend? Rebellion was one thing, but murder . . .

Akbar buried his face in his sleeve. Three days had passed since the news of Fazl’s death, and he had shut himself up in his apartments, seeing no one, talking with no one, not even with the ladies of his harem. What had he done to deserve such sons? Murad was dead, Daniyal was a dissolute youth given to drinking and opium,
and Salim . . . he had done more to break his father’s heart than either of his brothers.

He rose slowly from the divan and went to the window. With shaky hands, he unlatched the clasp and opened the latticework shutters. It was midafternoon; the sun rode high in the sky, bleaching everything to a glaring whiteness. Heat exploded into his face, and the Emperor stepped back, glad for the sensation after these last three days of numbing sadness. It was so hot that every breath seared his tired lungs. From here, Akbar could see only the heat-broiled plains beyond the Yamuna river, dotted here and there with stunted trees. But somewhere out there, in the dust of the plains, its sandstone buildings decaying, lay the city of Fatehpur Sikri. The city he had built for Salim.