Read Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World for Free Online Page B

behind, so that the dust rising from the road should not dim the spectacle, had followed the swaying glittering trumpeting mass of Akbar’s war elephants in their steel-plate armour, some with blunted scimitars tied to their red-painted tusks. In battle those blades would be honed to a deadly sharpness, but these were merely for show. With the elephants captured from Hemu, Akbar now had over six hundred. Next trundled the gun carriages and the bullock wagons bearing Akbar’s bronze cannon, then the huge baggage train carrying all the paraphernalia – tents, cooking pots, food and fuel – for the imperial encampment.
    Often the crowds jostling for a sight of the Moghul procession as it passed had been so numerous that soldiers had had to hold them back with their spear shafts. Even in the remote countryside, people had come running from their fields to view the spectacle and make their obeisance. All the same, Akbar had been glad when it was finally over. It had been his particular wish that it should end here, in Lahore – the city which two years ago, on a balmy February day in 1555, his father Humayun had entered in triumph on his way to reconquer Hindustan. Akbar had been at his side and could recall everything, from the gleam of the gold thread and pearl-encrusted saddlecloth of the elephant on which they had been riding to the exultant expression on his father’s face as he had turned to smile at him.
    Out of respect for his father, he had ordered every detail replicated for his own entrance into Lahore, which he had made last night as the sky had crimsoned to the west. Now, gazing from his high throne on the rows of chieftains prostrated before him in the formal greeting of the
korunush
, Akbar felt a deep satisfaction. As news of the Moghul victory over Hemu had spread, they had not been able to declare their allegiance to him fast enough. Every day riders had arrived bearing unctuous messages and extravagant gifts – matched pairs of hunting dogs, doves with jewelled collars and feathers dyed in rainbow hues, jade-hilted daggers, muskets with ivory-inlaid stocks, solid gold emerald-studded incense burners and tortoiseshell boxes of fragrant frankincense – even a great ruby that its owner ingratiatingly explained had been a family heirloom for over five centuries.
    He had accepted these treasures graciously but he was already shrewd enough to know that often the more lavish the present, the greater the treachery the giver had probably been contemplating. After consulting Bairam Khan, Akbar had decided to summon these supposedly loyal allies to await him at Lahore.
    ‘You may rise.’
    The sixty or so men, some sleek and plump in robes of silk and brocade in every colour from sapphire blue to saffron yellow, others – chieftains from the mountains – in coarse-woven tunics and trousers, got to their feet and waited, hands folded and heads bowed.
    ‘I thank you for answering my summons and for your oaths of loyalty. I recall the oaths made to my father when he too passed through Lahore not long ago. Indeed, I recognise many of you.’ Akbar allowed his gaze to roam slowly along the lines. Bairam Khan had briefed him well. He knew that among these chieftains were at least ten who had sworn allegiance to his father but on his death had immediately ceased sending the tribute they owed. Two had even made approaches to Hemu. They must be wondering how much Akbar knew. Did that pockmarked, pot-bellied chieftain from near Multan, who had just presented him with a fine chestnut stallion and was now regarding the carpet beneath his feet so studiously, suspect that in Akbar’s possession was proof of his treachery? Ahmed Khan’s men had intercepted one of his officers carrying a letter to Hemu.
    On the road to Lahore, Akbar had spent many hours debating with Bairam Khan and his counsellors how best to handle those whose loyalty had been found wanting. Some had argued that in the days of his grandfather Babur there