Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (20 page)

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?’

‘Some preliminary drawings, Majesty.’

‘Spread them out so I can see them.’

‘Certainly. Mohan, do as His Majesty asks.’

Akbar waited as Tuhin Das’s son – a slight, narrow-visaged young man with the red Hindu
tilak
mark on his forehead – laid out the sheets one by one on an ebony table, weighting each down at the corners with a few pebbles which he fished from a little bag suspended from the belt round his brown woollen robe. His fingertips were stained with ink, and Akbar noticed that they were shaking a little with nerves. Even before Mohan had finished, Akbar was leaning eagerly over the table. The pieces of paper were covered with a grid of small squares on which different buildings were marked.

‘Majesty, may I suggest that we begin with this one?’ Tuhin Das indicated the largest of the drawings. ‘Here I have drawn the overall layout of the imperial complex. As you have already specified, it will be built up on the plateau with – as you can see – the main town below. It would be bounded by walls on three sides while on the northwestern side would be a great lake, not only to protect Sikri but to supply it with water.’ Akbar nodded assent.

‘I propose that the palaces, the mosque and all the other buildings of the court should be built along the line of this ridge I have sketched here, which runs from the southwest to the northeast. But please remember, Majesty, though we have tried our best to interpret your wishes these are preliminary ideas only.’

As the architect pointed at his drawing, Akbar noticed that he had lost the top joint of his right forefinger. Tuhin Das saw his glance. ‘An accident, Majesty. I was once a stonemason. A slab I was working on slipped and crushed my finger. But it was good fortune not bad. Because of it I studied how to become a designer of buildings.’

‘Fate acts in mysterious ways. Explain this plan further to me.’

‘The palace complex would consist of a series of interconnecting
courtyards. What we have brought here today are the plans for the main court buildings. If you like them, we can make wooden models to give a more detailed idea of their facades and layouts.’

‘What is this?’ Akbar pointed to a drawing of a large enclosed area.

‘The
haram sara
– large enough for five hundred ladies to live in comfort with their attendants, just as you requested. Most of them would have apartments in this palace, the
panch mahal
.’ Tuhin Das pointed to a sketch of a tall building five floors high. ‘I have modelled it on buildings I saw when I travelled through Persia. There they have clever ways of designing houses and palaces with special vents and tunnels to catch and channel any cooling breezes, and I have done the same here. I have also tried to create a place of beauty – see how each floor is supported by slender sandstone columns. On the very top we have a
hawa mahal
– a palace of the winds beneath a domed canopy where the ladies may sit.’

‘Good,’ said Akbar. His wives and concubines must live in the luxury to be expected of the Moghul court. Among the growing number of his concubines he still visited Mayala, but perhaps more out of affection than desire after all these years. Others roused greater physical passion now. A newly arrived Russian girl – the first he had ever seen, sent as a gift by a rich Moghul merchant who traded in far-off lands – with wide sapphire eyes, pale skin and hair the colour of sunlight was absorbing much of his attention.

‘Here are the drawings of the houses for your principal wives and for your mother and aunt, Majesty.’

Akbar ran his eye over Tuhin Das’s sketches of a series of elegant mansions. ‘Which is the one you propose for the Empress Hirabai?’

‘This one. See, it has a
chattri
on the roof where she can go to observe the moon and worship our Hindu gods, just as you ordered, Majesty.’

Akbar looked carefully at the drawing. Though he hardly saw Hirabai, he wished her to be treated with the honour due to her rank as the first of his wives and the mother of his eldest son.

‘Excellent. And my palace?’

‘Adjacent to the
haram
and linked to it by covered walkways and
subterranean passages. In front of your palace, set in a great courtyard, would be the
Anup Talao
or Peerless Pool, twelve feet deep and fed by water from the lake along a series of aqueducts, so that all the time you will hear the refreshing rippling of water.’

‘You are certain there will be enough water to supply the entire city?’

‘The engineers assure us so, Majesty.’

‘What’s this?’ Akbar looked in puzzlement at a large rectangular space to one side of his proposed palace with a strange design drawn upon it.

‘This would be your private terrace, Majesty, but instead of just placing ordinary stone slabs on the ground, I suggest the novelty of laying it out like the cruciform board on which we play the Hindustani game of
pachisi
. It is a little like the game of chess that I understand you play, Majesty. You and your courtiers would be able to relax here and play, using giant pieces.’

‘Excellent. You have been very inventive, Tuhin Das. And this?’

‘The
diwan-i-khas
, your hall of private audience. From the outside it appears to have two storeys but in reality there is only a single chamber. Mohan, show His Majesty your drawing of the interior.’

Looking more confident now, Mohan undid the leather satchel hanging from his left shoulder and drew out a small sheet of paper which he unfolded and placed carefully on the table next to the larger drawings. Akbar saw a single high-ceilinged chamber in the centre of which rose an elaborately carved column, slender at the base then swelling out to support a balustraded circular platform connected by diagonal bridges to the four corners of the room. It was beautiful, but what sort of room was it?

‘I don’t understand. What is the purpose of that platform so high above the ground and those narrow hanging bridges?’

‘The platform is where you would sit on your throne, Majesty, while giving audience. The bridges signify that you have dominion over the four quarters of the globe. Any man invited to address you would advance along one of the bridges. The rest of your courtiers would watch and listen from the floor of the chamber.’

Akbar looked intently at the drawing. He had expected Tuhin
Das to design an audience chamber fit for an emperor, but he had surpassed himself. The more he studied the design and pondered the ideas behind it, the better he liked it.

‘Where does this idea come from? Does the Persian shah have something similar?’

‘No other ruler has such a chamber, Majesty. It was my idea. Does it please you?’

‘Yes, I think it does . . . But this central column. Presumably it would be carved from wood? Sandalwood perhaps?’

‘No, Majesty. To be strong enough to support the bridges we would need to use sandstone.’

‘Impossible. The design is too intricate.’

‘Forgive me for disagreeing, Majesty, but I know it can be done. The craftsmen of Hindustan are so skilled they can carve sandstone as if it were wood – no design is too detailed for them.’

‘If your craftsmen can truly do as you say, then let the entire imperial complex – every column, every balustrade, every window and doorway – be of carved sandstone. We will create a rose-red city that will be a wonder of the world . . .’ In his mind’s eye, Akbar could already see his new capital, exquisite as a jewellery box, as durable as the stone of which it would be built. Not only would it be a fitting tribute to Shaikh Salim Chishti but a memorial to Moghul greatness.

The number of labourers working on the construction of Sikri was, according to Tuhin Das whom Akbar had appointed as superintendent of construction, already over thirty thousand and still growing. Every day beneath the burning sun, a long line of men and some women toiled up and down the specially constructed road of packed earth leading to the plateau, carrying equipment up to the summit and bearing away rubble and debris in baskets balanced on their heads. From a distance they resembled lines of ants, moving with ceaseless patience and industry from the first pale light of dawn to the crimsoning sunset. They were scantily clad – the men in grimy
dhotis
and loincloths and the women in
cotton saris, sometimes with an infant tied to their back. The camp where they slept on woven mats beneath awnings of dun-coloured sacking and cooked their meals of lentils, vegetables and flat bread over dung fires stretched away across the dusty plain, almost indistinguishable from it.

It was an army of quite a different sort from any he had ever commanded, Akbar thought as he rode on one of his frequent tours of inspection with Tuhin Das, who was looking around him with satisfaction. ‘See, Majesty, how much progress has already been made with levelling the land ready for the building to start. Soon we will be able to dig the first foundations.’

‘And the quarrying of the sandstone?’

‘Two thousand rough slabs have already been cut and next week we will begin transporting them here by bullock cart so that the carvers may begin their work.’

‘I’ve an idea that might make the work proceed even faster. We have detailed designs for everything, so why not have the main pieces carved at the quarry, building by building, and then, when they are ready, brought to Sikri to be fitted into place?’

‘An excellent thought, Majesty. That should indeed make the buildings quicker to assemble and lessen the clamour and congestion on the construction site itself.’

‘I want every worker well paid for their labour. Announce that I am doubling the daily wage and that, if progress continues at a good pace, once a week there will be a free distribution of corn from the imperial granaries. I wish them to go at their work with unflagging vigour, and I also intend to set an example.’

‘How so, Majesty?’

‘Take me to the quarries. I intend to cut stone alongside my subjects to show them their emperor does not flinch from hard manual labour . . .’

Two hours later, sweat running down his naked torso and a frown of concentration on his face, Akbar swung his pickaxe. Just as when he flung a battleaxe or a spear, his aim was good. The sharp tip found its mark again and again, biting into the line drawn with charcoal across the slab and creating a furrow into which the skilled
stonemasons would then be able to hammer their chisels to cut a clean edge. It was exhausting work – tomorrow his muscles would be as tight and stiff as after a hard-fought battle – but he had seldom felt happier. Destiny intended great things for him, but for once it was good just to be an ordinary man, glorying in his youth and strength and with no worry for the future.