‘I couldn’t have shown the restraint you did,’ said Salim. ‘Khusrau’s followers are becoming ever bolder, posturing and strutting around and proclaiming my son’s virtues and his fitness to rule. Since Daniyal’s miserable death left me the only survivor of my father’s sons, their clamour for the crown to skip a generation has become more intense and more open. How dare they attack you? It’s as if they want to see how far they can go or perhaps even provoke me into action against them, thus alienating my father.’
‘Why doesn’t the emperor stop them?’
‘I don’t know. He’s aged a lot since the deaths of his mother and Daniyal. Suddenly he looks his sixty-two years and his bouts of stomach problems have become more frequent. His greatest interest seems to be in the company of Khurram, testing and probing his abilities and teaching him in a way he never did with his sons or indeed his other grandsons.’
‘Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t deliberately letting Khusrau and his followers push their case to see what level of support they can muster compared to ourselves.’
‘Perhaps so. I’ve been pleased that even some of the older nobles promoted on Abul Fazl’s urgings are now beginning to cultivate my favour, perturbed by Khusrau’s pressure for youth to rule experience. Maybe my father is being more astute than I give him credit for and is flushing out the preferences of his courtiers.’
‘Frail as he is becoming, the emperor should never be underestimated.’
‘But then how do you explain his outbursts against me? The other day, for example, when he criticised my handling of some of the military training, suggesting in front of the whole court I had been negligent or in an opium trance just because a fool of an officer, as the man later admitted, had misheard my command and turned his squadron in the wrong direction on the parade ground.’
‘All men hate to lose their grip on power. Sometimes if they feel it slipping they cannot help but lash out in frustration at their successors, raging inwardly at their debility and the transitoriness of power and even of life itself.’
‘You’re becoming a philosopher, Suleiman Beg,’ said Salim as one of his qorchis appeared through the hangings of the doorway to announce hakim’s arrival. ‘Enough. Let’s talk more later. Now you must let the hakim perfect his embroidery on you.’
‘What is it, Khurram?’ said Salim, surprised to see his youngest son approaching across the courtyard where he and Suleiman Beg were playing chess.
‘My grandfather says that it will aid his recovery to full health to watch you and Khusrau pit your best fighting elephants one against the other.’
Salim and Suleiman Beg exchanged glances. ‘When?’
‘Later this afternoon when it grows a little cooler. My grandfather wishes the fight to take place on the banks of the Jumna below the fort so he can watch from the jharoka balcony.’
‘Tell him that I am happy to obey and that I will send my favourite fighting elephant, World Shaker, against Khusrau’s.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Have you spoken yet to your brother?’
‘It was Khusrau who suggested holding a fight when he came to visit Grandfather today. He was praising a giant elephant he’d imported from Bengal called Damudar that has never yet been beaten.’
‘It will be a good contest then. World Shaker has never lost a fight either.’ Salim smiled at his son, but as soon as Khurram had left his smile faded. ‘Khusrau has deliberately contrived this contest. I’m certain of it. He hopes to defeat me before all the court.’
‘Perhaps he does, but how can he be sure his elephant will beat yours?’
‘He is conceited enough to believe this Bengal fighter of his is invincible. But even if not, he will know that the very fact of holding the fight will suggest to the world that he and I are equals — both contenders for my father’s favour. You know better than anyone the extent of his and his supporters’ ambitions. . You carry the scar. He will think victory for him will be seen as a symbol and an omen.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Everything I can to make sure my elephant wins. Send for Suraj and Basu, my best mahouts. We still have a few hours to prepare.’
News of the elephant fight spread quickly and as the time drew near excited spectators crowded the wide, hard-baked riverbank beneath the Agra fort. The area where the fight was to take place — an enclosure two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide — had been created by piling jute sacks of earth one on top of the other to the height of a man’s shoulder, leaving a gap on the west and east sides for the elephants to enter. A six-foot-high earth barrier running across width-wise divided the enclosure into two.
Salim was standing on the jharoka balcony with Khusrau and Khurram behind the low throne on which Akbar, wrapped in a fine embroidered Kashmiri wool shawl, was seated. Looking down, Salim noticed the purple tunics and cloth-of-silver turbans of Khusrau’s men among the crowds below. He could also see the red and gold clothing of some of his own attendants, including Zahed Butt, the captain of his bodyguard. He glanced at his eldest son. Khusrau was looking very confident and something he had just said to Akbar made his grandfather laugh.
The emperor raised his hand and at the signal a trumpeter high on the battlements put his six-foot-long bronze instrument to his lips and gave three short blasts — the signal for the elephants to proceed from their stables, the hati mahal, down the ramp from the fort and along the riverbank. First, to the accompaniment of kettledrums booming out from above the gatehouse, came the fifteen-foot-tall Damudar, wearing a purple velvet, silver-fringed jhool, his great legs loosely shackled with silver chains to prevent him from bolting. His mahout was seated on his neck and holding the long boathook-like metal rod used to control the animal during the fight. A second mahout was perched immediately behind. It would be his job to take over should the first man fall or be injured. Damudar’s forehead and eyes were protected by a shining steel plate that ended halfway down his trunk and his tusks were painted gold except for the tips, which were scarlet. As Damudar emerged from the fort and made his stately way towards the fight enclosure, Khusrau’s supporters on the riverbank roared their approval.
Craning his neck, Salim could now see his own elephant — a gift from Jodh Bai’s father — walking slowly down the ramp with Suraj sitting on his neck in front of Basu. World Shaker was smaller by nearly a foot than Khusrau’s beast but his silvered tusks were longer and more curved. The Rajputs trained their elephants well and World Shaker had proved his fearlessness many times.
As soon as Damudar and World Shaker had each entered their own side of the enclosure, bags of earth were piled up behind them to close the gaps in the arena walls. While this was being done, the elephants’ jhools had been removed and the beasts were already trumpeting angrily at each other with Khusrau’s Damudar swinging his great grey head from side to side. Salim felt his blood begin to pump. Glancing at Khusrau he saw from the rapid rise and fall of his chest that he too was excited. Had he misjudged his son? Was this simply a contest between two fighting elephants to amuse the sick emperor? But watching Khusrau bend to whisper again in Akbar’s ear, Salim was sure he had understood his son’s motives correctly.