Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World (47 page)

‘Thank you. Some sherbet.’

An attendant knelt before Salim with a bowl of water in which to rinse his hands and a scented towel on which to dry them while another poured some sherbet into a silver cup. Salim took the cup
and drank. Ghiyas Beg was right. The sherbet indeed tasted and smelled of roses and of summer.

‘I have the ledgers ready, Highness. What do you want to examine first? The caravan revenues or the village taxes?’

‘A little later,’ said Salim, deciding to draw Ghiyas Beg out and thus perhaps to catch him off his guard. ‘First tell me about your life here. I’m curious.’

‘About what aspect, Highness?’

‘You are a cultured, educated man. How do you manage to live in such a place as Kabul? What possible satisfaction or interest can you find in its squabbling tribes, its blood feuds and its greedy merchants?’

‘A man can find interest in anything if he sets his mind to it. And remember, Highness, I’ve cause to be grateful even to be in such a remote place as this. When your father sent me and my family here, he rescued us from penury and gave us hope. This may not be Isfahan or Lahore, but I have worked hard, tried to do my duty, and I have prospered. The emperor pays his servants well. By now I am wealthy enough to take my family back to Persia but my loyalty is to your father and I will stay here for as long as I can serve him well. Perhaps one day he will remember me and appoint me to a post in one of his great cities – Delhi or Agra, maybe.’

Ghiyas Beg seemed almost too good to be true, thought Salim. ‘And if not?’ he asked.

‘I am content. When a man has seen death reaching out for himself and his family and escapes, he learns to be thankful for what he has and not to make himself unhappy by yearning for what he cannot have. That is a lesson to us all, Highness, whatever our station in life.’

Salim started. Ghiyas Beg wasn’t referring to his own position, was he? The treasurer’s expression remained respectful. In any case, he himself could never be that patient and philosophic, Salim thought. Every time an imperial post rider clattered up the ramp into the Kabul citadel, his leather satchel bulging with letters and despatches, he hoped that one was from his father recalling him to court, but so far he had received not one word from Akbar. The only official
letters to him had been from Abul Fazl asking nitpicking questions about his reports on subjects such as the state of Kabul’s defences or the condition of the road to Kandahar.

‘Please try one of these sweetmeats. In Persia it is traditional to offer them to our guests. My wife made them from almonds and honey with her own hands.’

‘You have only one wife?’

‘She is like a part of me. I need no other.’

‘You are a lucky man. Few can say that,’ said Salim, thinking how much Ghiyas Beg’s words reminded him of his grandmother’s description of her marriage to his grandfather, Humayun. ‘But doesn’t your wife long to return to Persia?’

‘She feels as I do that we should be content with our lot. God has been merciful.’

Salim stared at the treasurer, impressed despite himself by the man’s quiet dignity and patience and again recalling Hamida and how she had often told him that their troubles had only strengthened the bonds between herself and Humayun. He could only wish that his own ties with any of his wives were so strong. But he reminded himself he had come to Ghiyas Beg’s house to question him about how he carried out his responsibilities, not about his private life.

‘Bring me your ledgers, Ghiyas Beg, and explain in detail how you levy the toll on the caravans that pass through Kabul. Saif Khan told me that you have made some improvements . . .’

The warm night air was pungent with the smell of dung fires, spices and baking bread as the citizens of Kabul prepared their evening meal on the flat roofs of the houses Salim passed on his way through the streets. Over recent weeks as spring had blossomed he had been so many times to Ghiyas Beg’s house that his grey stallion could probably find its way there blindfolded. ‘What do you and that old man find to talk about? You spend more time with him than I ever did with my father,’ Suleiman Beg had asked earlier that day, just as he had on many previous occasions. He was amazed that Salim sometimes preferred the Persian’s company to
the chance to hunt wild asses or go hawking in the hills around Kabul.

It was something Salim could not quite explain, even to himself. In Ghiyas Beg he had discovered a cultured, civilised man – a man of ideas and spiritual depth who, he sensed, felt as imprisoned and unfulfilled as he did but, unlike himself, could still find contentment. His visits to his house no longer had anything to do with checking that the treasurer was efficient and honest and indeed a great asset to his father. Ghiyas Beg had quickly proved his records accurate, and that his luxuriously furnished house had been financed by the salary due to his rank and a few trading ventures he had engaged in over the years. However, the two men had found, despite the disparity in their ages, that they shared many interests, from the natural world to the changing style of miniature painting under influences from Persia and Europe.

Tonight, however, was different. It was the first time Ghiyas Beg had invited Salim to dine at his house. Emerging from a street so narrow that the upper storeys of the timber-framed mud-brick houses on each side almost touched, Salim saw that the square where the treasurer lived was ablaze with light. Lanterns of coloured glass – red, green, blue and yellow – swayed from the boughs of budding almond and apricot trees. On either side of the entrance to the house stood giant candelabras four feet high in which burned a mass of candles. Crystals of golden frankincense smouldered in jewelled incense burners.

Ghiyas Beg was, as usual, waiting to greet him, dressed more magnificently than Salim had ever seen him. His silk robe was embroidered with flowers and butterflies and from a gold chain round his lean waist hung an ivory-hilted dagger in a coral and turquoise inlaid scabbard. On his head was a tall velvet cap like those worn by the envoys from the Shah of Persia Salim remembered seeing at Akbar’s court.

‘Greetings, Highness. Please follow me to where we will eat.’

Salim followed his host through the courtyard, the walls of which were covered with tiles painted with cream and mauve flowers, and down a passage leading into a second, smaller courtyard spread with
rugs. A silk canopy had been erected against one wall, beneath which was a low divan piled with cushions. As Salim seated himself Ghiyas Beg clapped his hands and at once servants appeared, some bringing water for Salim to rinse his hands while others spread a white damask cloth over which they sprinkled dried rose petals.

‘I have had dishes prepared from my Persian homeland. I hope you will like them,’ Ghiyas Beg said.

The food was some of the most delicious Salim had ever eaten. Pheasants simmered in a pomegranate sauce, lamb stuffed with apricots and pistachios, rice spiced with long golden strands of saffron and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds bright as rubies, hot wafer-thin bread to dip into pastes of smoked and pounded aubergines and chickpeas. Ghiyas Beg’s attendants kept his glass filled with wine from the Khwaja Khawan Said region of Kabul, celebrated for its fire and flavour.

Salim noticed that the treasurer himself ate and drank sparingly and said little except to acknowledge Salim’s frequent compliments. But when the dishes had been cleared away and grapes, musk melons and silvered almonds laid before them, Ghiyas Beg said, ‘Highness, I have a favour to request. May I present my wife to you?’

‘Of course,’ Salim replied, realising how great a compliment this was to their friendship. Usually only male relations met the women of the household. He had been wondering whether Ghiyas Beg’s wife and daughter had been watching through the fretted wooden screen he could see high in the wall opposite where he was sitting.

‘You are gracious, Highness.’ Ghiyas Beg whispered to an attendant, who hastened away. A few minutes later, a tall slight figure entered the courtyard through an arched doorway. She was veiled, but above the gauzy material Salim saw a pair of fine eyes and a wide, smooth forehead. She was obviously younger than Ghiyas Beg who, as she touched her hand to her breast and briefly bowed her head, said, ‘Highness, this is Asmat, my wife.’

‘I thank you for your hospitality, Asmat. I have not tasted better food since coming to Kabul.’

‘You do us great honour, Highness. Many years ago your father the emperor saved our family from poverty, perhaps worse. I am glad
to repay even a tiny portion of the debt we owe you.’ She spoke court Persian as elegantly as her husband, in a voice both musical and low.

‘My father acquired a good and loyal servant when he sent your husband here. There is no debt.’

Asmat looked towards her husband. ‘Highness, we have another request. May our daughter Mehrunissa dance for you? Her teachers, who have trained her in the Persian style, say that she is not unskilled.’

‘Certainly.’ Salim lay back against the cushions and took another sip of the dark red wine. He would be intrigued to see this girl who had been abandoned beneath a tree to the jackals and the elements.

A trio of musicians – two drummers and a flautist – entered the courtyard. The drummers at once struck up a compelling rhythm, and as the piper put his instrument to his lips a languorous melody issued from it. Then came a tinkling of bells keeping perfect time with the musicians and Mehrunissa ran into the courtyard. Like her mother she was veiled but above the veil her eyes were as large and lustrous as Asmat’s. She was wearing a loose robe of blue silk the colour of a kingfisher’s wing. As she raised her arms and began to revolve, Salim saw that in each hand she was holding a golden ring hung with tiny silver bells.

For a moment a vision of the last woman to dance before him – Anarkali – swam before him, bringing with it the sense of shame and regret her memory still conjured. But Mehrunissa’s dance was unlike anything Salim had ever seen in Hindustan, slow, graceful and controlled. Every gesture of her slender hands and fingers, the way she held her head, the stately sway of her body beneath the blue silk, the beat of her henna-painted feet on the ground, compelled attention. Salim leaned forward as the music grew louder. Mehrunissa flung back her head as if filled with the joy of the dance and then quite suddenly the music ceased and she was kneeling decorously at his feet.

‘That is one of the shah’s favourite dances, celebrating the coming of spring,’ said Ghiyas Beg, face soft with pride.

‘You are as gifted a dancer as your father said. Please rise.’

Mehrunissa got gracefully to her feet, but as she reached to push back a stray lock of shining black hair she caught a corner of her veil and it fell away, exposing her full mouth, a small straight nose and the soft curve of her cheeks. For a moment she looked straight into Salim’s eyes before quickly refastening her veil.

‘You only saw her for a few moments.’

‘It was enough, Suleiman Beg.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t had a woman for a while.’

Salim glared at his milk-brother. Since leaving Lahore and his wives and
haram
, the memory of Anarkali’s tumbling golden hair and voluptuous body – all that beauty to which he had brought such ruin – had curbed his desire, it was true, but his abstinence had certainly not been total and wasn’t why he felt like this.

‘Are you sure it’s not because for some unfathomable reason you like her father? You think her mind might be like his and her body female perfection.’ Suleiman Beg smiled and cracked a walnut between his teeth, flinging the shell out of the open casement in Salim’s apartments overlooking the courtyard. ‘What’s really so special about her?’

‘Everything. The way she moved – her grace. She was like a queen.’

‘Big breasts?’

‘She’s not a whore from the bazaars.’

‘Then I repeat my question because I just don’t understand. From what you say, a veiled woman did a brief dance for you and all of a sudden your loins are on fire . . .’

‘I saw her face. Suleiman Beg, it reminds me of how my grandmother speaks of Humayun’s feelings when he first saw her. There was something about it . . . I can’t get her out of my mind.’