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.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘No, Excellency.’ Sanjeev shook his head. Salim saw him slowly taking in the rich trappings of Akbar’s horse, the gems flashing on his fingers and round his neck, the well-armed guards in their green tunics. Puzzlement then alarm spread over his face, which was badly disfigured by smallpox scars.
‘I am your emperor. I was told a widow-burning is to take place here. Is that true?’
Sanjeev once more shook his head, but Salim saw his eyes flick across to a thatched windowless shack. Akbar saw it too and at once gestured to one of his guards to check inside. Moments later the man reappeared carrying a young woman in a white sari. Her body was limp, and as the guard came nearer Salim saw that her eyes were open but unfocused.
‘Lay her on the ground and one of you villagers fetch water,’ Akbar commanded. A boy ran up with a small clay cup. Akbar dismounted, took it, and kneeling by the woman’s side held it to her lips. The first drops ran down her chin but then she stirred and opening her mouth began to swallow. Coming closer, Salim saw the huge dark circles of her dilated pupils.
‘Who is this woman? Speak or I swear I will strike off your head here and now,’ Akbar said.
Sanjeev twisted his hands. ‘This is my father’s widow Shakuntala — he married her a year after the death of my own mother and just three months before he fell ill.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Fifteen, Majesty.’
‘You’ve drugged her, haven’t you?’
‘I gave her opium pellets to swallow. You don’t understand, Majesty. You are not a Hindu. It is a matter of family honour for a widow to follow her husband into the all-consuming heat of the flames. . I drugged her to ease the pain.’
‘You drugged her so she wouldn’t resist when you put her on to the funeral pyre.’
The young woman had sat up and was looking around, confused. Behind her the flames of the pyre were now leaping higher, crackling and shooting showers of sparks into the air. The smell of burning human flesh, mingling with the aroma of the scented oils and butter with which the brushwood had been drenched, was growing ever more pungent. Suddenly aware of where she was and what was happening, Shakuntala got shakily to her feet and turned towards the pyre. At its heart the body of her dead husband was now burning like a torch. As she watched, the corpse’s head burst open with a crack, followed by a frying sound as the brains were immediately incinerated.
Sanjeev glared at her, for the moment oblivious of Akbar and his entourage or of the villagers silently watching. ‘It is your duty to perish in the flames consuming your husband’s body. My mother would have done so had she outlived him and she would have been proud of it. You are bringing shame on my family’s good name.’
‘No. You are the one committing a shameful act. I have forbidden sati throughout my empire. Whether the widow is willing or unwilling, I will not tolerate such barbarous practices.’ Akbar turned to the woman. ‘You cannot stay here. You would not be safe. I am Akbar, your emperor. I offer you the chance to return with me and my men to my court where employment will be found for you as an attendant in the haram. Do you accept?’
‘Yes, Majesty,’ the woman replied. Until that moment she hadn’t realised who Akbar was and Salim noticed she was scarcely able to look his father in the eye.
‘As for you,’ Akbar addressed the still defiant-looking Sanjeev, ‘if you thought your religion required it, would you be willing to submit to the agony of being burned alive? I wonder. Guards, take hold of him and bring him over to the pyre.’