‘I know you will acquit yourself well, Abul Fazl. I wish the chronicle of my reign to be a testament to future generations. You must record the truth — the bad as well as the good. Don’t seek merely to flatter me.’
‘I will write every word with a pen perfumed with sincerity.’
Akbar suppressed a smile as he looked at his newly appointed chief chronicler. Though he had other scribes, he had begun to feel the need for someone who would do more than just write down his words — someone he could trust to inform himself about and record all the important aspects of his reign, even when he himself was away. Abul Fazl was a bull-necked, bow-legged man a little younger than himself with a small but livid birthmark at the corner of his left eye. His father Shaikh Mubarak, a learned theologian, had brought the family to the Moghul court some years earlier. Abul Fazl’s skills both as a commander and as an analyst of court politics had already caught Akbar’s attention, but it was his vizier Jauhar who had recommended him for this appointment, observing to Akbar that ‘although vain and an outrageous flatterer, Abul Fazl is clever and loyal. He will glory at being at the centre of events and will perform the task more ably than a more modest or retiring man.’ Certainly the beaming smile on his clean-shaven face told Akbar how gratified he was by the award of such a position of trust.
‘You must take particular care in recording the reforms I intend to make to the empire’s administration. One of the chief purposes of the chronicles will be to guide my successors.’
‘Of course, Majesty.’ Abul Fazl signalled with a richly beringed hand to an attendant who placed a carved mulberry wood writing slope before him and handed him paper, pen and ink.
‘Then let us begin.’ Akbar got up and paced his apartments. Through an arched opening he could see boys riding their camels along the sunlit banks of the Jumna and beyond them a group of his courtiers, one with a hawk on his wrist, going hunting. He wished he was with them, but business must come before pleasure.
‘I have already made some important decisions. First, I wish to fit all my officials into a single hierarchy. Every one of them, whether they are soldiers or not, will be designated as commanders of a certain number of troops. You look startled, Abul Fazl, but with such a large and disparate empire I must find ways to make my rule uniform and consistent. Even the head of the royal kitchens will be included — he will become a commander of six hundred. You, as my adviser and chronicler, will be a commander of four thousand.’
Abul Fazl permitted himself a satisfied smile and bent over his writing again as Akbar continued. ‘Next, certain lands within my empire will be designated crown property and my officials will collect the due taxes and remit them straight to my treasury. The rest of my territory will be divided into jagirs — fiefs — and given to my nobles and commanders to govern. They will be responsible for gathering the taxes and may keep a proportion in return for maintaining an agreed number of troops for the crown. In that way, should I need to go to war I will be able to gather a large and well-trained army quickly.’
‘Can the holders bequeath their jagirs to their sons, Majesty?’
‘No. When they die, the jagir will revert to me to be disposed of at my pleasure.’ Akbar paused. ‘By making every man of importance a servant of the empire and by being able to remove troublemakers from their jagirs and confiscate their property when they die, I can compel my nobles’ loyalty and prevent any of them from building a power base against me.’ He paused, and for a few moments the only sound was the scratching of Abul Fazl’s long, ivory-stemmed pen. ‘Is everything clear? Have you noted down everything I said?’
‘Yes, Majesty. I have written accurately and in sufficient detail for all who read my account to benefit from your great wisdom, unparalleled insight and organisational genius in bringing order to your new dominions.’
Why did Abul Fazl have to use quite so many words? Akbar wondered. He seemed to think that verbose and constant flattery was the way to Akbar’s favour. Perhaps it was the Persian way, though Bairam Khan had not been like that. The memory of his old mentor and his treatment of him was still painful, and Akbar determinedly pushed it out of his mind.
‘Let us go outside. We can talk further there.’ He led the way from his private apartments to a courtyard where his three sons were playing. Five-year-old Salim was riding in a small cart being pulled by Murad, just eleven months younger, and three-and-a-half-year-old Daniyal. They hadn’t noticed him yet, standing with Abul Fazl in the shadows beneath a neem tree, and went on with their game. Salim was growing fast. He had Hirabai’s narrow, slender build and the same thick dark hair and long-lashed eyes. Murad was nearly as tall but thicker set, more like Akbar himself, but with the tawny eyes of his Rajput mother, a princess of Jaisalmer. Little Daniyal, chubby with puppy fat and trying hard to keep up with Murad, as yet resembled neither Akbar nor his beautiful Persian mother.
Akbar watched with the satisfaction he always felt when he looked at them. Just as Shaikh Salim Chishti had predicted, he had three strong sons. ‘Look at them, Abul Fazl. What more could I have done to secure the succession than father three such healthy boys, and what better foundation could I have given my empire? God has been good to me.’
‘Yes, indeed, Majesty. He has poured his celestial light upon you.’
The cart had come to a halt on the other side of the courtyard and Murad was trying to climb in, no doubt demanding his turn. For a moment the memory of the Sufi’s warning disturbed Akbar’s content. He must pay close attention to the education of his sons and be alert for any signs of rivalry or jealousy, he thought, watching them intently now. But Salim was laughing as he yielded his place in the cart to Murad who, Akbar could see, looked all smiles. They were still so young. . He was being foolish. It would be years before he need worry — if he ever had to. He was about to walk over to join them when his qorchi approached.
‘Majesty, the architects have arrived to discuss the plans for Sikri.’
‘Excellent. I will come at once. You too, Abul Fazl. I want you to know everything about this project. I am planning a new capital at Sikri to fulfil my promise to Shaikh Salim Chishti, the Sufi priest who predicted the birth of my sons.’
‘Your love of architecture is well known, Majesty. Your father’s tomb in Delhi is the finest building in all Hindustan.’
Abul Fazl was for once not exaggerating, Akbar thought as they returned to his apartments. Humayun’s octagonal sandstone and marble mausoleum was indeed magnificent. With its high double-skinned dome and elegant symmetry, it recalled Timur’s tomb in far-off Samarkand of which Akbar had seen drawings. It was fitting that his father should rest in such a place. Of course, he himself would probably never visit blue-domed Samarkand with its soaring Turquoise Gate. For him it would remain like a dream, or the setting of some wonderful fable — spectrally beautiful but unreal. He had been born in Hindustan — its dry red soil was in his veins and his destiny was here. The thought reminded him of something important.
‘You must set this down in the chronicle, Abul Fazl. Sikri will be entirely different from anything I — or my father or grandfather — have built in Hindustan. I have decided to build it in the style of my Hindu subjects. That’s why I’ve chosen Hindu architects. I have already spent many hours questioning them. They have ancient books to guide them in which everything is written — from the best way to make bricks, to siting buildings in such a way as to bring good fortune to those who live in them.’
The two architects were waiting in Akbar’s private audience chamber. One was tall and middle-aged, the other much younger and holding some long rolls of papers in his arms. They bowed as Akbar entered but he waved at them to stand upright and addressed the elder of the two. ‘Welcome, Tuhin Das. Let’s dispense with ceremony. I’m eager to see what you have to show me. What are those papers your son has there?’