Salim stared at Akbar as he struggled to take in what his father was saying. Surely he didn’t mean. .? But as he continued to listen to Akbar’s calm but authoritative voice, his father’s intentions were becoming clearer by the moment.
‘Prince Khurram will be placed in the care of one of my wives, Rukhiya Begum, in my haram so that I may see him at any hour of the day or night. As he begins to grow I will appoint special tutors to superintend his education but will also take a hand myself.’
Didn’t his father even trust him to bring up his own son? Salim stared at the ground, willing himself not to look at Akbar because of what he might say or do. The most senior members of the court were present, he told himself, driving the nails of one hand into the palm of another so hard that he thought he had drawn blood. Causing a disturbance was unthinkable. He tried to steady his thoughts and to control his breathing, which had suddenly become jerky, as if he could not draw in enough air. Then another thought struck him with sickening force. Was his father thinking of eventually naming Khurram as his heir? Surely not. . Glancing sideways he caught Abul Fazl watching him. The chronicler’s small eyes looked interested, as if assessing how Salim was taking the news. What role had Abul Fazl played in this? Salim suddenly wondered. Was he encouraging Akbar to favour Khurram to extend the length of his time in power? He might seek to be regent if Khurram came to the throne in childhood. At the thought, such red-hot anger spurted through Salim that it was all he could do not to pull his dagger from his sash, spring forward and draw the blade across Abul Fazl’s fleshy throat.
But he would not give the chronicler the satisfaction of seeing how much his father had hurt him. He forced his features to look composed, but all the time his mind was racing, trying to work out the implications of Akbar’s theft of his son. It was little consolation that Khurram would have the best of everything and Rukhiya Begum was a kind woman. Salim had known her all his life. Plain-faced and grey-haired, she was Akbar’s cousin — the daughter of his long-dead uncle Hindal — and at least Akbar’s age. She was also childless. Her marriage to Akbar — as with his marriages to so many in his vast haram — had probably barely been consummated. No, he need have no fears for Khurram. The victims were himself and Jodh Bai, who would be deprived of daily contact with their son. .
At the thought of Jodh Bai, Salim’s jaw tightened. She had waited a long time for a child, and to have him given completely into the care of another would hurt her badly. Rukhiya Begum would appoint the child’s milk-mothers. Rukhiya Begum would be the one to watch Khurram’s daily progress. As soon as the celebration feast was over, Salim slipped away to find Jodh Bai in the haram. Her eyes were reddened with tears but she was not hysterical as Man Bai would have been had the newborn Khusrau been taken from her. She was sitting quietly on a yellow brocade divan, hands clasped together. Salim stooped and kissed her. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what my father was planning.’
For a moment Jodh Bai said nothing. When she did speak, her voice was calm. ‘Your father has sent me another gift.’ Opening her hands she revealed what she had been clutching — a magnificent gold chain set with glowing rubies and large pearls. Armies had fought for less. ‘It’s beautiful, but I would rather the emperor had left me my son.’ She let the shining necklace trickle through her fingers on to the indigo carpet beneath her feet, where it lay like a jewelled snake.
‘One day, I promise you, I will find a way of making amends for this — and so will Khurram. He won’t always be a boy in his grandfather’s thrall and the bonds between a mother and her son are strong, whatever the circumstances.’ As he himself knew, thought Salim, as an image of Hirabai’s proud face, softening as she looked at him, came into his mind.
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Jodh Bai asked, then shook her head as if impatient with herself. ‘Of course there isn’t. Your father is the emperor and it is a great honour that he should wish to bring up our child. I shouldn’t complain.’
Grief sat oddly on her round face, usually so alive with humour, and Salim felt tears prick his own eyelids — tears for her, tears of frustration at his powerlessness. But he also felt a new resolve. Hide your feelings, he told himself; be patient. Your time will come. . You will rule.
But as Salim reflected on those words over the months ahead they seemed to him ever more empty. His situation had less to do with patience than with powerlessness, he realised. Every day he had to live with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do. He was entirely dependent on Akbar, whose delight and interest in his grandson showed no sign of diminishing. Salim knew he should be pleased his father loved Khurram so much. . that he mustn’t resent the fact that Akbar had never responded to him like that. But it was hard. So was having to endure the sight of Khurram, on his rare visits to Jodh Bai, twisting in her unfamiliar arms and bawling to be returned to the milk-mother Rukhiya Begum had appointed. Jodh Bai tried to hide her sorrow but it never left her, he was sure.
All the time, Salim’s thoughts had kept returning to Abul Fazl, surely the author of so many things that had happened to frustrate his hopes. And if he’d needed any further proof that this man was his enemy, he’d just received it, Salim thought as on a warm summer’s day he strode towards Abul Fazl’s apartments in the Lahore fort.
‘Highness, you honour me by your visit. I was just recording in the chronicle His Majesty’s departure to Agra to inspect the rebuilding of the fort.’ Abul Fazl rose to his feet as Salim was ushered in. A polite smile was spread across his fleshy features but the small eyes looked watchful.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t gone with him.’
‘His Majesty will be away for nearly two months. He wished me to remain in Lahore so I could report anything of which he needed to be aware.’ Abul Fazl’s smooth, reasonable tone and his even smoother smile never failed to set Salim on edge but for once he felt no compulsion to hide his feelings.
‘I have just heard that my half-brother Murad has been appointed Governor of Malwa and Gujarat.’
‘Indeed, Highness. He is to leave Lahore to take up his new position in a month’s time.’
‘That is the post I asked my father to give me. He told me he would think about it. What happened?’
Abul Fazl spread his hands. ‘His Majesty can best answer that question. You know that he appoints all the governors of our provinces himself.’
‘I can’t ask him. As you yourself observed, he isn’t here. That’s why I’m asking you. You are his mouth and ears. I thought you knew everything.’
Salim’s tone was contemptuous. Yet he could see that instead of being offended, Abul Fazl was battling with his vanity. It hurt the man to pretend he didn’t know what was going on and it seemed he was prepared to lose that battle without too much of a struggle. His heavy-featured face eased into a smile. ‘What I can say is that His Majesty decided that Prince Murad would be well suited to the post.’
‘Better suited than me?’ If the increasingly colourful stories circulating the court were true, Murad was often too drunk to stand unaided.
‘I am sure Your Highness would also make an excellent governor,’ said Abul Fazl, evading the question.
‘Did my father ask your advice on the appointment?’
Abul Fazl hesitated a moment. ‘As I said before, His Majesty takes such decisions himself. My role is simply to record them.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Highness?’ Abul Fazl looked truly shocked. It occurred to Salim that over the many years the chronicler had served his father, they had almost never been alone together. The knowledge that Akbar was far from the court was liberating and Salim persisted with what he had started, not just the frustration of this latest matter of the governorship but the resentments and suspicions of years urging him on.