Akbar led his small troop along the dusty road and up the plateau towards Sikri. Two of his favourite hunting dogs were running alongside, pink tongues lolling, and his only escort apart from a few bodyguards were two huntsmen and his qorchi. A young deer he had shot as it burst from a thicket was already on its way to Agra, slung across the saddle of another huntsman he had sent back with it. It was sensible to maintain the fiction that this was a hunting party, Akbar thought. He didn’t want it known that he was consulting a mystic.
Ahead, through the shimmering midday heat haze, he saw the outline of the cluster of mud-brick houses on the edge of the plateau that was Sikri. ‘We’ll rest there until the heat abates a little,’ he said to his qorchi. ‘I’ve heard stories of a Sufi mystic who lives in this village and I’m curious to see him. Ride up there and ask him if the emperor may visit him.’
As the youth galloped ahead, Akbar followed more slowly, trotting up the steep slope and into the village where he dismounted in a pool of green-black shade beneath the dense foliage of a mango tree. A few minutes later, he saw his qorchi returning.
‘Majesty, Shaikh Salim Chishti bids you welcome. Come this way.’
Akbar followed his squire through the village to a low single-storey house with only two slits on either side of the door for windows. Ducking inside, for a moment he found himself in darkness. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he made out an old man dressed entirely in robes of rough-spun white wool kneeling in prayer, head to the floor and facing in the direction of Mecca.
‘Forgive me, Majesty, I was praying to God for guidance so that I may help you.’ As he spoke the old man picked up a tinder box and with swift, efficient movements lit a candle in a clay holder. In the faint light Akbar saw a face crinkled as a walnut.
‘How did you know I’ve come for help?’ he asked, looking around him. The room was almost empty except for the dark red prayer rug, a rough-hewn wooden chest and the string charpoy that was the Sufi’s bed.
‘Everyone who seeks me is hoping for divine assistance, even though they may tell themselves they have only come out of curiosity. You look surprised, Majesty. Perhaps you think I claim too much for myself? I did not ask for my powers, but I know that by God’s divine grace I can sometimes be a conduit to him. Come and sit in front of me where I can see you.’
Akbar squatted down on a piece of woven matting. For several minutes the Sufi said nothing, but his eyes, the irises curiously luminous like an owl’s, looked hard at Akbar, as if trying to divine his innermost thoughts. Then, swaying gently, long, slender hands folded against his chest, he began to intone, repeating over and over, ‘Give me your wisdom, show me the way.’ When was the holy man going to ask him why he’d come? Akbar wondered. But as he waited a sense of peace and tranquillity began to possess him. His eyes were closing and his body and mind beginning to relax, cares and anxieties, desires and ambitions rolling away until he felt unsullied and carefree as a child.
‘We are ready to begin.’ The Sufi reached out a hand and gently touched Akbar’s shoulder. Akbar opened his eyes with a start, wondering how long he had been in that half-dreaming state that had been so strangely pleasurable. ‘What is it you wish to know, Majesty?’
‘Whether my wife will bear me a son.’
‘Is that all? That is a simple question.’
‘Perhaps not so simple. You know that the empress is a Hindu?’
‘Of course, Majesty. All of Hindustan knows that.’
‘As a Muslim yourself, do you believe her childlessness could be God’s way of punishing me for marrying an unbeliever?’
‘No. As a Sufi I believe there are many roads to God and that it is for each of us to find him.’
‘Whatever our faith?’
‘Yes. God belongs to us all.’
That was true, Akbar thought, gazing into the Sufi’s searching yellow eyes. He had been foolish to wonder even for a moment whether there was any truth in what the ulama were alleging. Perhaps he had been equally foolish to fear that Hirabai’s antipathy towards him was the reason she hadn’t conceived. . Things he’d never thought his pride or his position would allow him to reveal to a stranger came tumbling out.
‘She doesn’t love me. Each time I lie with her I see her contempt for me. . I have tried to be good to her. .’
But the Sufi raised his hand. ‘Move closer.’
Akbar leaned forward and the Sufi took his face in his hands and pulled it gently towards him until Akbar’s forehead was resting against his own. Again a wondrous sense of well-being flooded through Akbar and his mind felt bathed in light.
‘You needn’t fear, Majesty. Your wife will soon bear you a fine son. And you will have two more sons. The Moghul bloodline will flourish here in Hindustan for many generations, nourished by your conquests and your vision of a powerful and united empire.’
‘Thank you, Shaikh Salim Chishti. Thank you.’ Akbar bowed his head. His confidence was renewed, his self-doubts stilled. Everything would be as he wished, he was certain. He would build a mighty empire, with sons to help him, and when he died they would continue his work. . the dynasty would flourish. ‘When what you say comes to pass, I will found a great city here at Sikri to honour you. Its gardens and fountains and palaces will be a wonder of the world and I will move my court here from Agra.’
‘When your wife conceives, send her here. Outside the village is a small monastery where she will be cared for, and perhaps away from the court her mind will grow calmer and she can prepare for motherhood more easily.’
‘Could she practise her religion here?’
‘Of course. As I told you, many paths lead to God and to the knowledge of ourselves and the universe we crave. We must each choose our own.’
‘Then I will indeed send her here.’ Akbar rose. ‘Thank you. You have brought me comfort and hope.’
‘I am glad. But there is something else I should tell you, and this time you may not welcome it.’
‘What is it?’ Akbar placed his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder, still sinewy and strong beneath his coarse woollen robe.
‘Though you will have three strong sons, remember that love of power, the desire to possess it, can poison even the closest family bonds. Do not take the love of your sons for you — or for each other — for granted.’
‘What do you mean? Are you speaking of family rivalries like those my father endured?’
‘I’m not sure, Majesty. Though I foresee that you will have sons and your empire will flourish, beyond that I see shadows. They are as yet without shape, but perhaps they carry a warning. Be vigilant, Majesty. Remember my words. Keep watch over your sons as they grow to manhood so you can dispel those shadows before they take substance and do harm. .’
Riding back towards Agra later that day, Akbar pondered the Sufi’s warning. So many times since the days of his ancestor Timur the Moghuls had almost destroyed themselves by turning on each other rather than their enemies. He would watch for the signs and be on his guard. But all that lay far off in the future. Buoyed by the thought of three sons Akbar urged his horse to a yet faster pace.
Six weeks later the khawajasara’s delighted face told Akbar everything he needed to know.
‘Majesty, at last it has happened.’
‘When will the child be born?’
‘The hakim says in August.’
‘I will go to the haram now.’ Akbar struggled to restrain tears of joy as he half ran to the women’s quarters. When he entered Hirabai’s apartments he smelled the familiar sweet spiciness of the incense sticks she always kept burning in a brass pot before a statue of an unsmiling, many-armed goddess. Hirabai was sitting on a low, lacquered Rajput stool as one of her maids combed out her thick hennaed hair. It seemed to Akbar that his wife’s face, grown so angular and drawn, was already softening and that her skin had a new bloom. Yet if he’d hoped for any softening in her manner to him he was disappointed. Her expression as she looked up at him was as distant and unyielding as ever.