Ruler of the World

Chapter 8

‘Majesty, Rai Surjan wishes to surrender. He offers to become your vassal and in return asks nothing but the lives of those within the walls of Ranthambhor.’ The elderly Rajput’s eyes were on the ground but the carriage of his tall, wiry body was proud. The words he had just spoken had not come easily to him.

Akbar suppressed a smile of triumph. Sometimes he thought of the officers executed after the fall of Chittorgarh but he had no regrets. Neither did he regret ordering the destruction of Chittorgarh itself — the orange and red flames and then the curling grey smoke had been visible across the Rajasthani deserts for days. His display of ruthlessness had had the intended effect. His siege of Ranthambhor — a fortified Rajput town known throughout Hindustan for the strength of its solid brick walls and high towers — had lasted less than a week. If Rai Surjan was ready to submit to him it meant that all the leading Rajput princes had now accepted his authority. Except, of course, Rana Udai Singh of Mewar, still skulking but defiant in the Aravalli hills after the loss of Chittorgarh and the territory around it. And it was still less than a year since the fall of Chittorgarh. With the Rajasthani princes — the most powerful rulers of northern India — and their saffron-robed warriors by his side, what couldn’t he achieve?

‘Tell your master I accept his offer and will spare the lives of all within Ranthambhor. Tonight he may remain with honour within its walls and tomorrow, when the sun is a spear’s height above the horizon, I will receive him and his senior commanders here in my camp and we will celebrate our new alliance.’

That night Akbar summoned a scribe to his tent. Sometimes such momentous images, such potent emotions filled his mind that he truly regretted he still could not write himself. When he returned to Agra he would appoint a court chronicler — perhaps several — to record the achievements of his reign and those of his father and grandfather, but for the moment the scribe would do. He waited while the young man unstoppered the green jade ink bottle dangling from a chain round his neck and sharpened his quill, and then began to dictate.

‘In this year of my reign, the flames of battle rose high in Rajasthan but seeing the might and resolution of my armies the courage of the enemy became like water and trickled away as raindrops into the sand. My victory here is complete and a fitting foundation for future glories. .’

Long after the scribe had left and the camp had fallen silent around him, Akbar found it hard to sleep. His euphoric words had come from the heart. He had a glorious destiny — he was sure of it — and he wanted the world to know of his exploits through the court chronicles he would have compiled. But no man could live for ever. A single arrow or musket ball in battle, or an assassin’s blade between his ribs, might suddenly cut off his life, and then what would happen to the Moghul dynasty? With no obvious heir the empire could soon fall apart as the Moghuls disintegrated again into a collection of petty warlords more concerned with feuding with one another than banding together to keep what they had won in Hindustan. If so, he would have failed just as surely as if, through carelessness and complacency, he allowed his armies to be defeated.

That mustn’t happen. He was in his twenties now and it was his duty to secure the future of the empire and the dynasty, and to do that he should marry and produce sons. It would certainly please his mother and his aunt. They had been hinting about it for a while, even suggesting possible brides. But preoccupied with planning the conquest of Rajasthan Akbar hadn’t paid much attention and, in truth, he still felt no great desire to marry. He enjoyed sex but his haram provided him with infinite pleasures and possibilities for that. He felt no immediate craving for the kind of close and intimate relationship Hamida had shared with Humayun. He had not fully recovered his ability to trust himself mentally to others since his betrayal by Adham Khan and Maham Anga. But sitting here restless and alone with his thoughts in the semi-darkness, he had to accept that the time for marriage had come — if not for himself, then for his empire and above all for the future of the dynasty. What mattered most, of course, was having strong, healthy sons, but marriage could also help him build alliances. He remembered some words from Babur’s diary that his qorchi had read to him: ‘I chose my wives to bind my chiefs to me.’

Outside, a sudden high-pitched squeaking announced that some small creature had been carried off by an owl or another predator. Pleased to have come to a decision, Akbar stood up and stretched. He would think as carefully about the choice of his first bride as about any military campaign. The women Hamida and Gulbadan had suggested to him belonged to the old Moghul aristocracy — one was a distant cousin of his and another was the daughter of the governor of Kabul — but were such women really the best choice for the ruler of Hindustan? Were their relations the chiefs he most wanted to bind to him?

As Akbar dug his left heel hard into its coarse-haired flank, the camel shot forward, grunting even more querulously than while it had been waiting in the hot sun for the race down the wide mud bank along the Jumna to begin. The crowds held back by the spear shafts of his soldiers roared encouragement, and glancing up briefly to his right Akbar caught the brightly coloured rows of his royal guests — the red- and orange-turbaned Rajput kings who had sworn allegiance to him — assembled in the place of honour on the walls of the Agra fort. But this was no time to think of anything except winning. Right leg crooked on the base of the animal’s bony neck and braced against the left, and with the rope reins looped through a brass ring in the camel’s nostrils in one hand and a length of bamboo in the other, Akbar urged his mount on. The rolling, lopsided gait, so different from the smoother rhythms of a horse, was exhilarating.

He’d chosen his camel well — a young male with a coat the colour of ripe corn, strong thighs and flanks, and a tendency to snap and spit that suggested pent-up energy. Looking quickly round, he saw he was at least half a length in front of the nearest of his five rivals, but the course was two miles long and much could still happen. The ground was a blur beneath him but suddenly another camel came bumping against his and he felt its rider’s thigh strike his own. It was Man Singh, the fourteen-year-old son of the Raja of Amber, his dark hair streaming out behind him. The Rajputs were legendary riders but so were the Moghuls. . ‘Hai! Hai!’ Akbar yelled, raising his stick. But he had no need to use it. His own camel turned its head and as its long-lashed eyes saw its rival it surged forward with a bellow.

For a few moments the two animals were nearly level but then Akbar was ahead again, earth flying up around him and the sour smell of sweat — human and animal — in his nostrils. ‘Hai! Hai!’ he shouted again, as much to release his excitement as to urge his camel on. His throat was full of dust and sweat was running down his face, but all he cared about were the two spears marking the end of the course that he could see some two hundred yards in front. Twisting round he saw he was a good five yards clear of Man Singh. He felt he was flying, charging towards certain victory.

But suddenly his camel stumbled, front feet entangled in a straggle of dry brambles that Akbar, eyes fixed on the finish, hadn’t seen. As the beast’s front legs buckled, Akbar leaned back as hard as he could against the hump, trying to keep his balance and clamping his left leg tight against the animal’s ribs. At the same time, though his every instinct screamed at him to pull tightly on them, he slackened the reins to give his mount the freedom it needed to try to right itself. With its head almost touching the ground, the camel seemed about to come crashing down. Dropping the reins entirely, Akbar flung himself forward, clinging to the nape of the beast’s muscular neck and trying to guess on which side it would fall, knowing he must roll clear or be crushed.

Then, somehow, the camel struggled upright again and kicking clear of the brambles galloped on. Akbar grabbed the reins and managed to haul himself up and regain his own balance. The whole incident could only have lasted two or three moments but it had been enough for Man Singh nearly to catch up with him. They were almost thigh to thigh again. ‘Hai,’ Akbar yelled, ‘hai!’ and again his camel responded, neck almost horizontal, snorting gustily. Five strides more and Akbar shot between the two spears just a foot ahead of Man Singh. As he reined in, drummers were already beating the cylindrical drums suspended from hide thongs round their necks to acclaim his triumph. Akbar jumped down from his steaming camel, full of the sheer joy of being alive and victorious.

Two hours later, as dusk was falling and the dark silhouettes of the first bats dipped and swerved through the gathering shadows, Akbar stood on a balcony of the Agra fort, freshly bathed, dressed in a green brocade tunic and pantaloons and wearing a gold chain set with thirty carved emeralds round his neck. His muscles still ached from the camel race but no matter. His Rajput guests, assembled around him, were about to witness the next stage in the festivities he had arranged in their honour. Mindful of their pride, he had determined to make the celebrations so spectacular that by the time his new allies returned to their kingdoms reports would already have reached their subjects of the great esteem in which the Moghul emperor held their rulers.

At a signal from Akbar, golden and green stars exploded into the night sky, as noisy as musket fire. Flashes of silver and red followed, then bursts of saffron yellow accompanied by a high screeching like that of a giant eagle. Next a fine mist, purple and pink, stole into the air. From all around him, and from the crowds gathered along the banks of the Jumna below, Akbar heard excited gasps. The magicians from Kashgar who had come to his court were highly skilled at such things. He had ordered them to produce their finest display and they had not disappointed him. But with the finale drawing close, Akbar was curious to see how these strange men in their long, padded coats of embroidered silk and tasselled hats would fulfil the special command he had given them. For some moments all was quiet and dark and Akbar could sense the anticipation as the crowds waited to see what fresh wonders would unfurl above them. Suddenly came a hissing and a whooshing and the heavens filled with the striped face of a great tiger, jaws yawning so wide it looked ready to swallow the universe. For a few moments it hung there, ferocious and magnificent, and then the bands of black and orange dissolved into tiny shimmering stars.

‘The tiger overshadows us all now,’ said Raja Bhagwan Das of Amber, a short, wiry man in his thirties with a fine-boned face and the same eagle nose and sharp black eyes as his son, Man Singh. The vermilion Hindu tilak mark was on his forehead.

‘The tiger is the symbol of my dynasty, it’s true,’ Akbar replied, ‘but don’t we all admire the beast’s courage and strength? Which of us hasn’t pitted himself against the tiger’s power and cunning in the hunt and felt the glory of the enterprise? My hope is that one day all Hindustan will embrace the tiger as an emblem of our collective power.’

‘Perhaps it will be so, Majesty,’ Bhagwan Das responded enigmatically as he again looked up into the sky, where now only stars lit the soft darkness.

‘I pray that it will, and that you and I will ride to battle and to glory together many times as true brothers in arms,’ Akbar persisted, and saw Bhagwan Das cast him a swift, sideways glance. Of all the Rajput leaders he had summoned to Agra — including the rulers of Bikaner, Jaisalmer and Gwalior — Bhagwan Das was the most powerful. He was also by all accounts shrewd and ambitious and no friend to the Rana of Mewar. If Udai Singh came out of the mountains and tried to retake his lost lands, Akbar wanted to have Bhagwan Das’s forces on the Moghuls’ side. And if tonight went as he planned, Bhagwan Das would indeed be his friend and for ever. . Akbar put his arm around the Rajput’s shoulders. ‘Let us now feast together, Bhagwan Das, as true allies should.’

Akbar led Bhagwan Das and his other Rajput guests down to a large rectangular courtyard. It was lit by three eight foot high candelabras placed in the centre, in each of which burned a dozen white jasmine-scented wax candles twelve feet tall creating a star-like blaze of light. All around the courtyard, smaller candles flickered in jewelled golden candlesticks and wicks burned in diyas of scented oil. Silk carpets held down by weights of camel bone and silver carved into the shape of lotus leaves covered the flagstones, and low tables with plump brocade-covered bolsters for seats had been set around three sides. On the fourth stood a wide dais beneath a canopy of green velvet shot through with golden thread. A gilded throne stood upon it with divans, also gilded but slightly lower, arranged on either side.

As soon as Akbar and his Rajput guests were seated on the dais and their courtiers had arranged themselves around the tables, attendants brought dishes piled with the best food Akbar’s kitchens could provide — roasted meat and game, stews simmered in spices and butter, rice scattered with dried fruits and gold and silverleaf-covered nuts, fresh-baked breads — including the Rajput delicacies of corn and millet rotis cooked with buttermilk — grapes, melons and sweetmeats of rosewater and marzipan. Looking around, Akbar felt confident. There was a sense of restraint, but that was only natural — after all, just a few months ago he had been at war with several of the rulers assembled here and some of them had also been at odds with each other. The purpose of this feast was to show these Rajput princes, the proudest of the proud, who claimed the sun and the moon among their ancestors, that this new-found harmony was in their interests as well as his and that as long as they remained loyal to the Moghul throne they would share in its glory.

He waited until attendants were passing round dishes of besan — finely ground flour in which his guests could dip their fingertips to cleanse them of grease — and brass bowls of scented water in which they could rinse their hands, and all were lying or sitting back in comfortable content. Then he rose and holding up his hands for silence began the speech that he had rehearsed so carefully, choosing words to convey both his determination to rule and his deep respect for his guests.

‘My people did not come to Hindustan as ravishers to despoil it and carry its riches back to our own lands. We came to claim what is ours — like a bridegroom coming to his long promised bride. Why do I say that Hindustan belongs to the Moghuls? Because over one hundred and sixty years ago my ancestor Timur conquered it. Though he did not stay, he appointed a vassal to rule as his viceroy, but over the years usurpers took the land and, preoccupied with their own conflicts in the far north, the Moghuls could do nothing. Then, forty years ago, my grandfather Babur returned and reclaimed the empire.

‘But I do not regard Hindustan as a subject land or its people as inferior to the Moghul clans. All races are equal in my eyes. Though traitors will find no mercy, those who give me their loyalty will prosper. The highest offices at court, the most powerful positions in my armies will be theirs — and yours especially, my friends from the Rajput kingdoms, the lands of warriors. To show my esteem I hereby declare that from this day forward you will number among my inner circle — my ichkis. I also declare that you may continue to hold your kingdoms not from me as an overlord but as watan — your own hereditary lands to bequeath to whichever heirs you will.’

As he sat down, Akbar glanced at Bhagwan Das, seated to his right. ‘You do us honour, Majesty,’ the Rajput said.

‘And you honour me by your presence here. Bhagwan Das, I have something further I want to say. I wish to marry. I have heard of the beauty and accomplishment of your youngest sister, Hirabai. Will you give her to me as a wife?’

For a moment Bhagwan Das, shocked, did not answer. Eventually he said, ‘Why Hirabai, Majesty? Out of all the women in your empire, why have you chosen my sister?’

‘To show the esteem in which I hold the Rajputs. Of all the peoples of Hindustan you are most like the Moghuls — forged in the white heat of battle, proud and strong. And of all the Rajputs, you, Bhagwan Das of Amber, are the foremost. I have already seen the courage of your son during the camel race. Your sister will, I am sure, make a worthy empress. And — let us be frank — I wish to bind my allies to me. What better way than through marriage?’

‘So that is your intention — to ally yourself with my people through ties of blood. .?’ Bhagwan Das said slowly, as if assimilating the thought and weighing its merit.

‘Yes.’

‘And you will take other wives also?’

‘Indeed, as a means of strengthening my empire. But I swear to you, Bhagwan Das, that I will always treat your sister with the respect due to a Rajput princess and the first of my wives.’

Bhagwan Das, though, was frowning. ‘It is almost unknown for a Rajput woman to marry outside her people. . And your own family has never broken its ancestral blood ties.’

‘No. But I am the first Moghul emperor to be born in Hindustan, which is both my land and my home. Why shouldn’t I seek a Hindustani wife?’

‘But we Rajputs are Hindus. Even less than marry outside her people can my sister marry outside her religion. She cannot embrace your Muslim faith.’

‘I would not ask it of her. I respect her religion which is indeed the religion of many of my subjects. I have never interfered with their worship, so why should I deny Hirabai that freedom?’

Bhagwan Das’s aquiline face remained grave and Akbar leaned closer. ‘I give you my word — the word of an emperor — that I will never force her to abandon her faith, and she may build a shrine to pray to her gods within the imperial haram.’

‘But perhaps your own family — your nobles and your mullahs — will object?’

Akbar looked across to where some of his white-turbaned, dark-robed mullahs were seated. ‘They will come to understand that it is for the good of the empire,’ he said, then added with steel in his voice: ‘They will also understand that it is my will.’

‘Perhaps, or perhaps not. . And my sister, though young — she is many years my junior — can be headstrong and stubborn too. . she may not feel. .’

‘Your sister will be an empress and perhaps mother to the next Moghul emperor — as you will be his uncle. Bhagwan Das, give me your answer. Do not disappoint me, please.’

For a moment, Bhagwan Das sat back, his fingers playing with the triple-stranded necklace of pearls that fell almost to his lean waist. Then, finally, he smiled. ‘Majesty, you honour my family. Hirabai is yours. May all our gods smile on the union.’

She was sitting very still beneath her ruby-coloured veils, which were shot through with orange and gold thread. The only movement was the trembling of the flowers and leaves, worked in gold wire and studded with pearls, set in her headdress — a wedding gift from Akbar. The white-clad Hindu priest had finished his part in the ceremony and now it was time for Akbar’s mullah to recite verses from the Koran. As the man slowly and sonorously intoned the words, Akbar could see one slender foot protruding from beneath her robes. It was decorated with henna in intricate spirals.

He glanced down at his hands, also painted with henna for good luck by his mother and aunt, who were watching the ceremony through a screen of interwoven willow wands designed to allow them to see without being seen.

Finished at last, the mullah closed the ivory covers of his book and handed it to an attendant who placed it in a carved wooden box. Then the mullah picked up a ewer of rosewater and, as Akbar held out his hands, poured the cool water over them to symbolise cleansing, then tipped what was left into a translucent agate cup. ‘Drink, Majesty, to confirm the union.’

Akbar swallowed a few drops then held out his hand to Hirabai to lead her to the marriage feast, to be given by her family in accordance with Hindu custom. Akbar had given Bhagwan Das fine and richly furnished apartments in the Agra fort to house the members of his family and the retinue that had accompanied Hirabai as she travelled in her covered litter slung between two camels all the way from Amber. The celebrations tonight would signal the start of a month of gift-giving, processions, hunts, elephant fights and displays of martial skills. Yet as the wedding feast progressed, all Akbar’s thoughts were on the coming night and he felt a little uncertain. The joyous giving and receiving of pleasure with his concubines was familiar and fun. In their soft, scented arms he found release from the burden of kingship. But the bedding of a virgin Rajput princess was different.

He glanced at Hirabai sitting close beside him, still hidden beneath her shimmering veils. For the hundredth time, he wondered what she would be like. Rajput women were renowned for their striking beauty, but even if she didn’t please him it wasn’t important, he told himself. What mattered was that by this marriage he had secured an enduring alliance with the kingdom of Amber. Other such political unions would follow, ensuring the empire’s peace and stability. At least as a royal princess Hirabai would understand the cares and preoccupations that came with being a king.

Akbar tried to attend to the rituals of the feast. Dancing girls from Amber clad in peacock blue whirled before him to the wild rhythms of lean, bare-chested, orange-turbaned drummers and the wailing of brass pipes. Rajput musicians sang in high-pitched nasal voices of valour on the battlefield, acrobats tumbled through circles of flaming rope and an old man in a long coat inset with pieces of mirror glass that reflected the candle light coaxed a python from a woven basket. He let it coil itself around him and even kissed its thick, scaly body.

Then came the climax Akbar himself had planned. As the magician, uttering commands in some harsh-sounding language Akbar had never heard, returned the hissing serpent to its basket, Akbar’s chief huntsman entered the chamber. He was leading a sinewy, half-grown leopard with a collar of rubies and diamonds round its tawny neck. The teardrop markings beneath its eyes had been gilded, making it look like a creature from some fable. Its tail lashed about, knocking a goblet to the ground, and the muscles in the huntsman’s arms, left bare by his leather jerkin, bunched as he tightened his grip on the leash.

Akbar rose and addressed Bhagwan Das. ‘This is Jala, a cub sired by my favourite hunting leopard. It is my gift to you on this auspicious occasion.’ The raja’s eyes gleamed. Akbar knew he loved the hunt as much as he did, but, more than that, leopards were rare and very valuable, truly imperial animals. The gift of one was a great distinction. The raja seemed speechless. ‘My huntsmen will continue to train him, and when he is ready I will send him to Amber.’ Akbar went over to Jala and cupped the animal’s graceful head between his hands. ‘Be as swift and fearless in the hunt for your new master as your father has been for me.’

By the time the wedding feast was ended the moon had risen, its pale, cold light silvering the Jumna river where it flowed some thirty feet beneath the apartments in the haram that Akbar had chosen for Hirabai and to which, preceded by musicians, he escorted her. As his attendants began to undress him, he glanced towards the brocaded screens embroidered with flowers and stars — the product of the looms of Gujarat where the weavers excelled at such things — behind which his bride was being undressed and anointed with perfumed oils ready for the marriage bed. When the last attendant had left, Akbar drew his loose green robe around him and approached the curtains. Pulling one aside, he ducked through. Hirabai was standing with her back to him, the slim outline of her body visible through the diaphanous peach-coloured muslin of her shift. Her hair, tinted with dark red henna, hung in shining waves to the small of her back. Something about the set of her shoulders told him how tense she was.

‘Hirabai. . Don’t be afraid. You have nothing to fear from me.’ Akbar placed both hands on her shoulders and turned her gently to face him. Perhaps it was the expression in her eyes — wild as the leopard’s had been — that gave him warning. As Hirabai twisted from his grasp and raised her right hand he was ready for her. Reacting as instinctively as on the battlefield, he wrenched her wrist back so sharply she cried out and a small, broad-bladed dagger fell to the ground.

‘Why?’ he demanded, still gripping her tightly by the wrist. ‘Why?’ he shouted again, even louder, his face inches from hers, when she didn’t reply at once.

Hirabai’s eyes, black as her brother’s, were full of hatred. ‘Because you are the enemy of my people — the slayer of countless brave Rajputs at Chittorgarh, and their women to whom you left no option but to save their honour by making jauhar. I wish I could have been with them. I would have gone joyfully into the flames to avoid submitting to you.’

Akbar released her and she stumbled back several paces before regaining her balance and rubbing her right wrist. His eyes flickered over her, looking for any other weapons, but near naked as she was he could see there were none. ‘Your brother gave you to me willingly. Does he know your feelings?’ A new thought struck him. ‘Perhaps he knew you meant to kill me. Was he the instigator?’

For the first time, Hirabai looked afraid. ‘No. He knew nothing. He has little time for the women of his family. Even the news that I was to become your wife came to me in a letter.’

‘I should call the guards. Before the sun rises you should meet your end.’

‘Do it, then.’

‘Is that really what you want? If the world found out what you tried to do, your brother would live the rest of his life in shame and disgrace. Who among the other Rajput rulers would wish for contact with a man whose sister had abandoned every concept of duty and honour? The Rajputs are renowned for their courage on the battlefield, not for assassination and deceit.’

Hirabai flushed. For the first time he saw how beautiful she was, oval face delicately boned as a cat’s and soft skin the colour of new honey. But she held no charms for him. Striding over to her, he gripped her shoulders.

‘Listen to me. I will not have my alliances with Rajput kingdoms disrupted by one woman’s foolish delusions. The officers I executed after the fall of Chittorgarh met the end they wanted. Under your Rajput code it would have been shameful to them to live. Surely you understand that?’ Hirabai said nothing, but he felt her body slacken as if the fight was draining from her and he relaxed his hold. ‘I will tell no one what happened just now and, if you value your family’s honour, neither will you. You are my wife and you will do your duty. Do you understand me?’

Hirabai nodded.

‘In that case, it is time to perform your first task as my bride.’ Akbar looked towards the bed. Hirabai turned away, and untying the pearled cord round her waist let her robe fall to the floor. Her delicately curved body was alluring, but anger not desire was what he felt as he lowered himself on top of her and began to thrust, eyes never leaving her face. Not by a single change in her expression did she show any pain or discomfort as he moved faster and faster inside her, anxious not for pleasure but just to get the task done. This was not how he had expected his wedding night with his virgin bride to be. His new wife had violated his trust just as Adham Khan had done. Hirabai was as hostile an enemy as any he had faced on the battlefield. But they, like Adham Khan, had learned not to defy him, and so would she.