Sanjeev’s pockmarked face was suddenly waxy with sweat and he started to breathe heavily. ‘Majesty, please. .’ he begged as two soldiers grabbed him beneath the armpits and dragged him towards the fire. He was punily built and the guards could toss him into the flames as easily as a bale of straw, Salim thought.
Akbar strode across to the man. ‘Hold him by the shoulders,’ he ordered. ‘Let us see how well he can bear the pain he was so ready to inflict on others.’
Then, gripping the man’s right arm just above the elbow, Akbar thrust his hand into the flames. Sanjeev’s screams split the air and he fought to break free but Akbar steeled himself to hold his hand in the brightly burning fire for a little longer. Sanjeev’s crescendoing cries were now more animal than human. Even the young woman was no longer able to watch.
Suddenly Sanjeev passed out and apart from the crackling flames there was silence. Supporting the limp body, Akbar pulled the man’s badly burned hand from the pyre and held it up for a few moments so all could see before letting him fall to the ground. Then he turned to address the villagers, who in the shock of what they had just witnessed had drawn even closer together like a knot of sheep that suspects the wolf is close.
‘You have just witnessed my justice. I expect my laws to be obeyed and transgressors always to be severely punished. You are all as guilty as this man here.’ He pointed to Sanjeev, who was now beginning to come round and moaning in anguish. ‘You knew what was intended and did nothing to stop it. I will not make you feel the fire as he did, but I will give you ten minutes to remove your livestock and possessions. Then my men will turn your village into a pyre. Over the next weeks as you labour to rebuild your houses you will have time to contemplate the consequences of defying your emperor.’
Within minutes the settlement was ablaze. Shakuntala was mounted behind one of the guards, a scarf thrown over her head to preserve her modesty, as they rode back down the hill. Salim noticed that she did not once look back at the place which had been her home. Glancing at his father, he realised he had never felt so proud of him or so glad to be his son and a Moghul.
‘He was magnificent. I had never seen him dispense justice with such power and authority. It was different from watching him at court where everything is so stiff and formal and seems to take for ever.’ Ever since his father’s rescue of the young Hindu widow, Salim had felt buoyed by memories of it, especially of how his father had known instinctively what to say and do. That was real power.
‘He was interfering with the ancient ways of our land,’ Hirabai said coldly.
‘But he upholds the rights of Hindus. Only a few days ago I overheard some members of the ulama criticising his tolerance. One mullah said he had heard that the emperor was going to pray at the Hindus’ sacred place at Allahabad where the Jumna and the Ganges meet. Another was complaining that the emperor seemed prepared to venerate anything — fire, water, stones and trees. . even the sacred cows he allows to wander freely through his towns and villages, even their very dung. .’
‘Your father only upholds what he approves of. He has no right to intervene in sati. It does not concern him.’
‘But it does. He has forbidden it. Those villagers were defying him.’
‘They were obeying a higher authority — their religion. That was not disobedience but duty.’ Hirabai’s words reminded Salim of what Sanjeev had said in justification of his actions, and of what the Jesuits sometimes said in justification of acts by their church that also seemed barbarous. He said nothing as Hirabai continued, ‘My people — your people — the Rajputs have practised sati almost since time began. Many times when I was a girl I witnessed Rajput noblewomen give away their jewels and other worldly possessions and join their husbands joyfully on the funeral pyres, cradling their dead husbands’ heads in their laps as the flames leapt around them, all the while smiling and uttering not a cry.’
‘But it was wrong. . why should they give up their lives before their time? What good did it do?’
‘It proved their love, courage and devotion and brought honour to their families. As I have told you before, we Rajputs are the children of the sun and of fire. We perhaps more than any other Hindus believe in the power of the flame to cleanse and ennoble us. Many, many times in our history — the last was at the end of your father’s siege of Chittorgarh — when it seemed that our menfolk faced certain death on the battlefield, Rajput women dressed in their finest clothes and jewels as if it was their wedding day. Then, faces transfigured by the glory that awaited them, they followed their queen in a stately procession to where a great fire had been lit. One by one, they committed the sacred rite of jauhar, leaping joyfully into flames which reduced their bodies to ashes and set their spirits free to rise again like phoenixes.’
Of course, no one would ever expect her to burn on Akbar’s pyre since Muslims did not cremate their dead, Salim thought, though looking at the almost fanatical pride on her face he knew that had his mother been married to a Rajput she would have followed him gladly into the flames. But all Salim could think of was Shakuntala’s terrified young face. Barely two years older than he, she had chosen life not death and every instinct told him she had been right. His mother’s veneration of suicide seemed chilling, and proud though he was of his Rajput ancestry this was something he couldn’t share. Many times when trying to judge between his father and his mother he’d been left confused and uncertain, but not this time.
Chapter 18
‘I have decided that I will move the capital of the empire from this city of Fatehpur Sikri to Lahore. Preparations will begin immediately. I and the court will begin our journey to Lahore in two months’ time. The council is dismissed.’
Standing at the back of the chamber, Salim felt his heart beat faster as he watched his father sweep past him and disappear through the curtained doorway into the sunlit courtyard followed by his tall green-turbaned bodyguards. By the startled look on their faces and the excited hubbub of voices, the members of his father’s council were as surprised and shocked as he was by Akbar’s pronouncement, which had been made at the end of a routine not to say tedious council session about the level of market taxes. Only Abul Fazl seemed unperturbed as he completed his notes of the meeting, the slight smile on his smooth fleshy face suggesting — probably intentionally — to any onlookers that Akbar had long since taken him into his confidence. Why did he so often feel like punching Abul Fazl to wipe away that supercilious smile? Salim wondered. Perhaps because he wished his father would share more of his thoughts with him. In particular, this decision to move from Fatehpur Sikri both intrigued him and worried him. His father rarely acted on impulse. He had probably calculated that to announce his decision when and how he had would indicate that his mind was made up and he would brook no debate or questioning of the move.
Therefore, the relocation must be important to his father’s plans. But why? As his father’s eldest son, surely he should know him well enough to understand his motives. What’s more, what would it mean for him? Did Akbar intend the whole court to move? Or would he leave some part of it behind in these beautiful new buildings? Would he himself accompany his father? And what about his mother Hirabai? Might she be left behind in her private sandstone palace in Fatehpur Sikri? That seemed only too likely. He still enjoyed his visits to his mother, however infrequent they had become and however often she inveighed against his father. His concern grew as he realised he might be separated from one or other of his parents. He must know what was in his father’s mind. Hadn’t he a right to ask?