Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (38 page)

He had expected a shy, even bashful bride – Suleiman Beg had teased him about it, warning him not to frighten her with his brothel manners – but he could sense her anticipation. Unfastening his robe
he let it fall to the ground and walked over to the bed, wishing he had fought more battles and had scars to impress her with. He sat down on the edge of the bed, close to but not touching her and suddenly unsure of himself. But Man Bai took him gently by the shoulders with her hennaed hands and pulled him down beside her. ‘Welcome, cousin,’ she whispered. Needing no further encouragement, Salim drew her closer and kissed her, feeling her full mouth open beneath his. Then, freeing her from her diaphanous muslin robe, he began to run his hands over the soft contours of her body. She was delicately boned with a slender waist but her hips swelled voluptuously and her breasts were large – bigger than Geeta’s, Salim found himself thinking. Her hands began exploring his body, not with Geeta’s assurance and expertise but eagerly and unashamedly none the less.

Parting Man Bai’s thighs, he began to caress her. A quiver ran through her body and her breathing quickened. After a few moments she arched her back and eyes closed began to cry out softly, pressing herself so tightly against him he could feel the hardness of her nipples. Young though he was, he had learned enough about women to know that she did not want him to delay. Raising himself, he gently tried to enter her. She felt very tight. He had never made love to a virgin and knew he must be careful not to hurt her. But again he sensed the eagerness within his bride. Her cries were growing louder and her hands, gripping the hard muscle of his shoulders, were urging him on. He began to thrust harder, more urgently. Man Bai’s cries were turning to moans but they were of pleasure not pain. Then he felt something within her ease and he was deep inside her. They were moving as one, bodies locked together and their skin dewed with sweat. Salim’s eyes were clenched and his head was thrown back. He was trying to hold back for a few more moments, but he couldn’t. The climax came, and mingling with his own ecstatic groans he heard Man Bai’s gasps of pleasure.

Lying close to his young bride, hands cupping the lush curve of her buttocks, Salim said nothing. Her sexual hunger had stunned him a little but he was glad to have a wife who unashamedly enjoyed the sexual act and on her wedding night had been eager, not afraid. It was she who spoke first, disengaging from him, sitting up and
pushing her sweat-dampened hair back from her face. ‘What are you thinking, cousin?’

‘That I am fortunate in my wife.’

‘And I am fortunate in my husband.’ She put her hands round his neck. ‘They told me you were good-looking, but brides are often told lies about the men their families want them to marry. I only remembered you as a tongue-tied awkward boy.’

The next morning, the wedding sheets were duly inspected and approved, and drums were beaten to proclaim the success of the wedding night. Among those presenting themselves to pay their respects to the new bridegroom was Abul Fazl. ‘I have recorded in the imperial chronicles that Your Highness was yesterday wedded to one of the brightest jewels of chastity in the empire,’ he said in his usual unctuous way. Salim listened politely, as he had to, but he was glad when Abul Fazl departed.

The festivities over the days that followed were everything Akbar had promised. Wedding gifts from across the empire: gems, dishes of jade, silver and gold, high-stepping Arab horses, embroidered shawls of the softest wool – yet another gift from the chastened Sultan of Kashmir – and even a pair of lions were displayed through the streets of Lahore. Camel races were organised along the banks of the Ravi river. To his great satisfaction Salim beat both his half-brothers in one contest, successfully urging his snorting, spitting, splay-footed mount over the finishing line, the roars of the spectators in his ears. The strongest of his father’s fighting elephants were pitted against one another within high earth barricades, fighting until their grey hides were lacerated and their tusks dripped with blood, while every night there was more feasting and towards midnight so many fireworks that they turned the dark world back to day.

But every evening, however spectacular and novel the entertainments, Salim’s thoughts turned to the moment when he could again be in Man Bai’s eager arms till the morning sun was warming the palace. Suleiman Beg joked that if he continued like this he would need ointment from the
hakims
to soothe his over-active loins.

‘I name you, my first and most beloved son, Khusrau.’ So saying, Salim picked up the white jade saucer filled with tiny gold coins and poured them gently over the baby’s head. ‘May your life be crowned with success, in token of which I shower you with these earthly riches.’ The child blinked, then looked up at Salim from the silk-fringed green velvet cushion on which he was lying. Salim expected at any moment to hear wails of protest but instead Khusrau smiled and thrashed his arms and legs. Salim picked up the cushion and raised it high so all could see his healthy young son. A polite murmuring followed as the assembled courtiers and commanders exclaimed aloud at the child’s vigour and lustiness and uttered good wishes for his long life.

Salim glanced at his father standing by his side on the marble dais. This was Akbar’s first grandson and his face, still handsome and firm-jawed though he was in his forties, looked both pleased and proud. The previous day Salim had received a pair of hunting leopards in velvet coats, their gilded leather collars set with emeralds – a certain sign of his father’s approval. Surely now that he had become a father himself Akbar would give him some position in which he could demonstrate his abilities. Given the chance to lead a Moghul army, he could prove to everyone – not just his father – that he was a good fighter and commander and would one day make a great emperor.

His half-brothers were no rivals, Akbar must see that. Murad had married three months ago, but even at his tender age he had been drunk at his wedding feast and later had had to be half carried to his bride’s bed. Salim had known of Murad’s love of wine and spirits, but until his wedding his half-brother had managed to conceal his drunkenness from Akbar. Their father had been so enraged that he had ordered Murad immediately on campaign in the south. To keep an eye on him, he had sent one of his senior commanders with orders that not a drop of alcohol was to pass his son’s lips. As for Daniyal, he was going the same way as Murad. Since reaching adolescence, pleasure and self-indulgence were all he seemed to care about. Salim rarely saw either of his half-brothers but he had heard the stories, particularly the one about how Daniyal had ordered the
largest fountain in the marble courtyard of his apartments to be made to flow with the rich red wine of Ghazni, not water, and how he and his companions had stripped naked to frolic in it, and the one about the time a drunken Murad had dressed as a woman and danced lewdly before not only his courtiers but also an envoy sent by the Portuguese from their enclave of Goa.

Salim smiled as he gently placed his son back in the arms of one of his milk-mothers, a sister of Suleiman Beg. As he did so he vowed he would spend more time with his son than Akbar had done with him. He would have more sons too, not only by Man Bai but also by his other wives – Jodh Bai, a Rajput princess from Marwar, and Sahib Jamal, daughter of one of Akbar’s commanders. He enjoyed his growing
haram
. His father was always urging on him the importance of forging alliances through marriage but really he needed little encouragement. Any new woman if she was young and good-looking was a fresh adventure, and if for political reasons it was expedient to marry a woman who was faded or ugly, well, not every wife had to be bedded more than once and she could always be found an honourable place in his
haram
. That had always been his father’s policy and through his huge number of wives he had, as he so often boasted, done much to pacify and consolidate his empire. Why shouldn’t he, Salim, be the same?

The only shadow, as Salim moved to take his place at the feast to celebrate his son’s birth, was Man Bai. She still excited him sexually but he hadn’t been prepared for her jealousy when, six months after his marriage to her, his father had announced that he wished Salim to take a further wife. Man Bai had pleaded with him not to do it, weeping copiously in her apartments and – as the day of his second wedding approached – refusing to eat. Again and again he had explained that he must obey his father but she wouldn’t listen, shrieking at him that he was betraying her. Summoned by a nervous attendant to his
haram
one night, Salim had found Man Bai perched on a stone balustrade overlooking a stone-paved courtyard thirty feet below. ‘You have driven me to this,’ she had shouted as soon as she saw him. ‘You have made me desperate. Wasn’t my love enough for you? Is it because I haven’t yet conceived?’

With her wild hair, red-rimmed eyes and gaunt features, Man Bai had reminded him of a mad young woman he had sometimes seen in the bazaar, going from person to person upbraiding them for some imaginary injury and being driven away by stones and dung. He had hardly recognised his beautiful Rajput wife as she clung trembling and dishevelled to the stonework. He had coaxed her down, explaining as patiently and tenderly as he could that as a royal Moghul prince he must do his father’s bidding and marry again, but of course it would not affect his feelings for her.

Except that it had. Man Bai’s unreasoning hysteria had made him wonder what else he didn’t know about his cousin. It had also made him realise that what he felt for her wasn’t love – only sexual passion. She should be happy living in the magnificence of the Moghul court surrounded by luxuries beyond those even a Rajput princess was used to. He made frequent visits to her bed where they were each other’s equals in the giving and receiving of pleasure. That should surely be enough. It was foolishness to expect to be his only wife. But her unexpected jealousy had left him wary of Man Bai. His visits to her had grown less frequent and not long after her threatened suicide he had indeed married Jodh Bai. With her plump body and round face she wasn’t as beautiful as Man Bai, but her wit made him laugh and he liked her company even if he didn’t feel a close bond with her.

As fate would have it, four months after his marriage to Jodh Bai and just before his marriage to Sahib Jamal, Man Bai had become pregnant with Khusrau – the first of the next generation of the Moghul dynasty. The status that conferred should satisfy Man Bai, but if it didn’t there was nothing he could do and he would not allow it to worry him – though it did, particularly the thought that their son might inherit some of her self-centred lack of control.

Akbar’s deep voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Let us now go to feast the birth of this new prince. May he and the dynasty prosper.’

As he took his place at the feast, Salim offered up a silent prayer for his own prosperity. If he became the next Moghul emperor, what might he not be able to do for his sons?

O
nce again, more than three years after his first journey there, Salim was sitting in an elephant howdah as the great beast plodded its way towards Kashmir. This time, though, the circumstances were very different. Their long journey was aimed at peace and pleasure, not war and conquest. Both he and his father had fallen in love with the beauty of Kashmir, its peaceful valleys, glistening lakes and flower-strewn meadows, and above all the respite it provided from the angry summer sun of the plains. The dozen elephants preceding his carried not warriors but members of his
haram
. On the nearest was Man Bai with the two-year-old Khusrau. On the next two were Sahib Jamal with Parvez, the son she had given birth to three months earlier, and then Jodh Bai. Beyond them, further towards the front of the column, were the elephants bearing his father’s
haram
. His mother was not among them, having scorned the cool of the mountains for the sun of her native lands, but his grandmother Hamida was and Salim was glad. Despite his marriages, she was still one of his closest confidantes.

Akbar was, as usual, riding at the very front of the column. Though Salim had done everything his father had asked, acquiescing in all his marriage plans for him, the closeness he had felt to Akbar after the victory over the Sultan of Kashmir had gradually ebbed. He had hoped that fathering Akbar’s first grandson might have made Akbar
warm towards him as well as to his grandson. To Salim’s continuing frustration and disappointment, his father still seemed too preoccupied with the expansion of his empire and its smooth running, as well as with his philosophical musings, to be prepared to spend much time with his eldest son or to involve him in affairs of state. He was almost always closeted with Abul Fazl who, Salim was sure, used his smooth, flatterer’s tongue to his detriment. Tasks and appointments which might have been given to Salim to prepare him to rule one day had, instead, been given to friends of Abul Fazl, who was even now sharing his father’s howdah. Some court rumours claimed that he had grown fat on the bribes he had received for recommending his friends, though others said that his corpulence was solely accounted for by his excessive appetite. Salim had heard Abul Fazl’s
khutmagar
– his butler – boasting to one of his own servants that Abul Fazl consumed thirty pounds of food a day and even then occasionally asked for a nocturnal snack.